Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

Crowley was an optimist. It had been a constant about him, since the very genesis of his being. 

It had been easiest, of course, when his life had been easiest; and funny thing, that, that things had gone so downhill for him, it made breathing stars into creation seem like a walk in the park. 

But it had been, really — because it was what he had been made to do. And he had been elated for it; joyful, to watch nebulae burst into life before his eyes, covering the vast expanse of the universe with twinkling lights and pulsing, glowing colors.

Yet still he had kept his optimism, even in the face of such antithesis. 

Even when he had been plummeting from Heaven, wings blackened and charred, throat hoarse and voice lost from screaming; even when he had plunged headfirst into a pit of boiling sulfur and dragged his way out, watching in horrified agony as his angelic corporation had caved into a mass of writhing scales, the coils of a cursed serpent; even when, after six thousand years spent on Earth and having a rather grand old time, really (save, of course, for the 14th century), it had seemed as if it were all going to come to a grisly end at the hands of an eleven-year-old boy. 

But the world hadn’t come to an end. Just as Crowley hadn’t perished when he had Fallen; just as even the 14th century had, eventually, given way to the 15th — the century when the humans had started making good whiskey, making it, in Crowley’s opinion, astronomically better than the last.

Crowley was unlike other demons for many reasons, and his optimism was one of them. Generally, demons did not feel much emotion save for the three Bs: boredom, bitterness, and burning homicidality. That last B was technically a cheat, but Crowley’s imagination was rather limited to things he actually cared about, and his former co-workers were not one of those things.

What Crowley had always imagined — had always believed — was that, in the end, things would work out for him. They always had. Even if, each and every time, it took a long while to get there. Of course, he had taken time to mope, and feel very sorry for himself, when times were particularly difficult — or even just in the wake of some brief annoyance when he felt like being particularly dramatic. But there was a difference between having a moment, and giving up entirely. 

Crowley had suffered through a great deal of misery and pain. He had seen the face of God turn away from him as he and the rest of the Fallen had been cast from Heaven; he had felt every atom of his body be devoured by the pits of Hell from the inside out; he had been subject to Hell’s punishments for his own demonic incompetence enough times for it to have left a mark, over the millennia. 

All of that, and he had picked himself back up and carried on.

And yet there had been two moments in his life — one in the past, one ongoing — in which he did not pick himself back up. In which he, instead, stayed right where he was. In which he, metaphorically speaking, just lay there and let himself bleed.

The first time he had given up, it had been by the blazing roar of a ferocious fire, and the stifling choke of smoke curdling in his lungs. That defeat had lasted only a few hours, but Crowley still counted it; a singular outlier, in millennia of boundless optimism.

The second, it was by the burning of lips against his own, and the suffocation of words that had gone unsaid. And that defeat lasted — was lasting, rather — much, much longer.

There was a common denominator, in both scenarios. 

It — or, he, rather — did not have anything specifically to do with Crowley’s optimism. Crowley was not optimistic because of him, nor for him. But in the absence of him, he found it rather more difficult to be.

Crowley had not meant to become smitten by an angel. In either meaning of the word.

When he had first slithered in Eden, he had, in fact, been quite concerned about the possibility of the Principality on the Eastern Gate smiting him (i.e., striking a lethal, angelic blow that would render Crawley quite unoptimistic, because he would be dead), a concern that had quickly abated the moment the angel had offered a wing to shield him from the rain. 

But across millennia, his concerns had switched to the far more pressing, in Crowley’s opinion, possibility of him becoming smitten (i.e. — entirely, irrevocably, ineffably in love) with the very same Principality.

It was quite an inconvenience, really. 

Hard to be an optimist, when you were ‘head-over-heels’, as the humans say, for your hereditary enemy — when you were doomed from the start, in other words.

Harder, when said hereditary enemy — when Aziraphale — had chosen his side. 

And it was not their own.

Crowley was an optimist. It had been a constant about him, since the very genesis of his being. 

For six thousand and four years, he had had one singular outlier: when he had thought Aziraphale had been destroyed in the bookshop fire, before the Armageddon-That-Wasn’t. He rather thought that that was still a good, mostly clean record; grief killed humans every day, he was quite allowed to have a few hours to have cast up a feeble white flag and conceded to the end of the world.

These days, however, it had become less of an outlier, and more of a standard. 

The Three Bs were a lot simpler, anyway. Even if his were less of being bored, bitter, and burningly homicidal — and more of being bored, bitter, and broken-hearted.

If asked on the matter, Aziraphale, too, would call himself an optimist. 

He was an angel, after all; it was part of his job description, to see the best in things. To find the good in every circumstance. To hope, as Crowley did, that everything would work out in the end — for the world, if not for himself. And that, to him, was what really mattered, when it all came down to it.

Through his own optimism, Aziraphale believed — with every part of himself — that he could influence the universe for the better. That meaningful change against the things that were wrong about it all was possible, so long as there were individuals such as himself willing to fight for it. Whereas Crowley may have seemingly abandoned such a notion long ago, Aziraphale was convinced that there was a chance for it. 

That was why he accepted the Metatron’s offer; that was why he had become Supreme Archangel.

Aziraphale was not an idiot. He knew the things Heaven had done — to the world and humanity in it, to himself, to Crowley. But simultaneously, he wasn’t going to sit idly by, twiddling with his thumbs, when he was given the opportunity to fix things. And at the crux of it, he believed Heaven was a place of truth, and light, and goodness, just as he had told Crowley. 

When Heaven ends life here on Earth, it’ll be just as dead as if Hell had ended it, Crowley had said in return — but Aziraphale knew that he could stop life on Earth from ending at all, because he believed that he could make a change.

Regardless of that belief, however; he, too, was . . . struggling.

Leaving Crowley had felt so wrong that it had very nearly trumped what he knew was right. That thought alone terrified him, just as every word that had left Crowley’s mouth in his last few minutes on Earth had terrified him, just as it had terrified him when Crowley had kissed him — kissed him! — with all the ferocity and desperation he could possibly muster. 

Just as it had terrified him when, for a moment, he had kissed him back. 

Just as he had been terrified, for the past six thousand and four years, because his life on Earth was not a Jane Austen novel; because they were an angel, and a demon, and even if — as Crowley had said, or started to say — even if, in the past four years, they had been something more of their own side, they were, still, an angel, and a demon. 

And yet . . .

Aziraphale was no stranger to difficult decisions. He had chosen his side in the Great War, despite the familiar faces he had seen opposing him; he had given his flaming sword to Adam and Eve, and he looked into the Light of God as he had lied about it; and he had sacrificed the love he had for Crowley (had always had, would always have), for the sake of humanity.

He could make a change, make a difference. 

Or at least, that was what he had believed; when he had looked at Crowley, eyes full of tears, and forgiven him. 

The thing about Heaven was that everyone in it should, theoretically, be as optimistic and as hopeful for the future of humanity as Aziraphale himself was. They were angels; they had watched God create Adam from dust, and Eve from Adam. They had seen the beginning of the people; had seen the best of them, and the worst of them. They had seen the potential, within every single person, of their free will.

Instead of inspiring most angels, however, it frightened them.

Angels were not built for free will. It was, arguably, why so many had Fallen after the Great War. God had invented free will for the people to have, not for Her angels to wield as a weapon of asking questions and threatening Her authority, and whatnot (all of which Crowley had snarled about, to a great extent, while they had both been drunk many, many centuries ago, and that Aziraphale had not forgotten about since). It was for that same reason that Aziraphale had been terrified for six thousand and four years, since the moment he had offered his wing to the demon on the wall of Eden, who had a smile that he recognized from the cosmos.

The bottom line was that angels saw free will, and saw something that needed to be destroyed.

And, thus: the Second Coming, and Aziraphale’s determination to circumvent it.

He would. He would circumvent it. 

That was something he believed not because he wanted to, but because he had to. Because otherwise, everything was for nothing, and he would not even have been given the chance to say to Crowley all of the things that terrified him, just as clearly as Crowley’s own words had terrified himself, in the bookshop.

If asked on the matter, Aziraphale, too, would call himself an optimist, because he was an angel — and yet, an angel who believed in free will, and in humanity, and in the chance to make a difference.

Even when things started going pear-shaped.

Chapter Text

It had taken Crowley seven months to accept that Aziraphale wasn’t coming back.

He had waited a lot longer for the angel, of course; there had been decades-long gaps in between their meetings, more often than not. Even in the past few centuries, there had been times in which they had gone years without seeing one another. The four years after the averted Armageddon (and the eleven years leading up to it, with their shared work over the false Antichrist) had been an irregularity. 

Their Arrangement had made them cross paths more and more often over the years, especially as six thousand years of being adversaries had made them something of friends, and then — in their four years of freed circumstances — something very nearly more. It had been a sort of dance; keeping step with one another while never getting too close, even when there would not have been consequences to doing so. They had more circled one another, rather than shared an orbit. 

So, yes; he had waited a lot longer for the angel. Notably, he had gone to sleep after meeting up with Aziraphale in 1862, had stayed that way until the war had shaken him awake in 1914, and had not seen the angel in person until 1941 — and 79 years was a great deal longer than seven months.

But this was — this was —

This was different. 

It was different, because Aziraphale was gone. He had left. And he wasn’t coming back. 

Of course, it wasn’t as if he had woken up one morning, on the exact seven-month mark, and decided, then and there, that he would never see the angel again. It was more of a gradual thing. 

Crowley had watched Aziraphale leave — had seen him step foot into the elevator Up to Heaven, and had watched the doors close; had watched the light fade away. There was no question that he had left; the question, rather, had been when he would come back. 

At first, Crowley had left, too. He had gotten in his Bentley, and had driven around aimlessly for days, the fuel gauge staying reliably at zero all the while as he drove slowly, turning off the stereo every once and a while when his car tried to play Vera Lynn. He hadn’t been able to stand anything but his own sorry company, after . . .

(Listen. You hear that?

I don’t hear anything.

That’s the point. No nightingales.)

Well.

Eventually, he had gone back to the bookshop. He could never stay away for long. He had thought that the other angel, Muriel, would still be there; but they had been gone already, and he had decided that he couldn’t leave it alone. He couldn’t let it get into disarray, if — when Aziraphale came back.

Surely, he would — surely. Because Heaven was horrible to Aziraphale, just as they were horrible to everyone (and just as Hell was the same; it was all the same, save for Earth, the only respite to monotonous driveling cruelty, what with the humans and their nature of free will that they, in Crowley’s opinion, took far too much for granted), and surely, Aziraphale would know his worth by now. Surely, he would come to realize that neither side of the ineffable coin that was Heaven and Hell could be polished in the slightest; that, for all of his righteous determination and goodness, he could not change a thing.

It turned out that he did not understand any of those things, because he had not come back.

(Heaven, it’s the side of truth, of light. Of good.

When Heaven ends life here on Earth, it’ll be just as dead as if Hell ended it.)

Crowley had stayed in the bookshop — because where else would he go? Muriel was gone; Gabriel had fucked off into the stars with Beelzebub, the lucky, pompous bastard. There was no one else who would care for Aziraphale’s books. 

And so Crowley did. 

He took care of the shop, he took care of the books — and he drank. He drank a lot. 

More so, as the months went on and on, and Aziraphale did not return.

It was halfway through the seventh month, to be more precise about it, when Crowley had had the sudden notion that Aziraphale was not ever going to come back. The thought had sent him into such despair that he had gotten drunker than he’d ever been and had woken up in the morning with such a ghastly hangover that it had taken three tries to miracle it away.

When he had, he wished he hadn’t, because the pain of it was much more bearable than the pain of remembering that Aziraphale was gone — and that he was not coming back.

It had been a year since then, and things had stayed relatively the same.

Crowley maintained the bookshop, and drank a great deal. He gambled at the local pub, and very nearly lost his Bentley (which had taken to turning yellow and playing soft love songs at inopportune times, so quite honestly, Crowley wouldn’t have been as opposed as he may normally have been to the thought). 

He lamented his sufferings in great depth to Mrs. Sandwich from the brothel up the street, and spent some (many, when he was first adjusting) nights on her sofa when sleeping in the bookshop was too painful, and even his car wouldn’t cooperate. She had learned to not tell him that he was better off without Aziraphale, and had instead turned to advising him to not drink so much, which he, of course, ignored.

He did not go anywhere outside of Soho; he had spent the last four years being within calling distance of the bookshop, and old habits were hard to break, even on the days when things were at their worst and he wanted so desperately to soar off into his stars and never come back. Maybe go off and hunt Gabriel and Beelzebub for sport, to make himself feel better, then live out his days on Alpha Centauri. He’d be alone, but at least he’d be away from this place, the root of his pain.

But he stayed anyway, even then.

(He pretended like he wasn’t still waiting for Aziraphale.

He isn’t coming back. Crowley had taken to telling himself that like a mantra, because it was the only way he kept himself from truly flying off the handle. One may think it would be the opposite, but — at least this way, believing that he wasn’t, let Crowley dredge up more anger to trump the overwhelming grief, in the moments when he was sober.

He isn’t coming back.)

Half the shopkeepers on Whickbar Street had nearly gone bankrupt without the angel there to keep them afloat out of the goodness of his heart, but Crowley had (begrudgingly) stepped in in his stead. Hell wasn’t keeping tabs on him anymore, and he could care less about demonic responsibilities. Sometimes, it sent a shudder down his spine to do a Good Deed, but usually, he was too distracted by his worse woes to give a damn. 

Besides, it helped to have Nina around, when Mrs. Sandwich was busy — even if seeing her and Maggie together made Crowley’s heart twist with longing. Crowley didn’t often seek out company, these days, but when he did, those three women were the sole exceptions. Nina was his favorite — though sometimes, she reminded him unnervingly of himself.

Muriel had come back down, once; a few days prior to the one-year mark of Aziraphale’s departure. They had seemed shocked at the immaculately-kept state of the bookshop, and then startled when Crowley had stumbled in, drunk but elated, only to deflate back into misery when he realized who it was not.

To Muriel’s credit, they had done their best to be comforting; he had asked after Aziraphale, and — besides Muriel informing him that they were just checking in on things on Earth, as was angelic policy a year after ‘momentous miraculous activity’ — it had gone something like this:

“How’s he, y’know . . . doing?”

“Doing? What is he doing, you mean?”

“No, how? I mean his, ngk . . . well-being?”

“. . . Well-being?”

And, really, he shouldn’t have expected an angel to know the meaning of the word. That was on him. 

In his defense, he had been astonishingly drunk. 

Nina seemed to think he was something of an alcoholic. 

Crowley thought in return that she should mind her own blessed business.

She didn’t understand; no one did. Though really — what human, angel, demon, or otherwise could understand the pain he was in? It was worse than Falling, this pain. It was nearly as bad as just before the Armageddon-That-Wasn’t, when he had stormed into the flaming bookshop, and had staggered back out in despair, convinced that Aziraphale was dead. 

When he — for all of his optimism — had taken one look at a world without Aziraphale, and given up.

Well. At least it wasn’t entirely like that. 

At least Aziraphale wasn’t dead. 

But . . .

He was in Heaven. Heaven, which had treated him awfully since — well, always. 

Crowley himself didn’t remember much from his time as an angel and from the Great War, but if there was one thing he did remember, it was how much Heaven took from you. Took, and took, and took, until there was next to nothing left. He had seen them do it to Aziraphale; had seen their disdain for his angel, had watched Gabriel tell him to shut his stupid mouth, and die already. He had seen the look the Metatron had given Aziraphale; the constructed kindness hiding venom beneath, until he had glanced at Crowley and put that hatred on full display.

And now Aziraphale was there, in Heaven — where Crowley could not protect him.

Of course, Aziraphale didn’t need protection, generally. He was exceedingly intelligent, and he was strong, and he was capable. But when it came to Heaven, to God and Her angels — he wouldn’t defend himself against them. He never really had; not after everything they had put him through. Even when Gabriel had shown up without his memories, Aziraphale had been frightened. He had helped him because he was far too caring for his own good, but he had still been frightened. 

It made Crowley furious. Not at Aziraphale; rather, at everyone but him.

He could never be angry with him. Not for too long, anyway; that would mean having to stay away from him. He didn't want to do that. 

And he wasn’t angry. He wasn’t. He had been, as he had watched him leave; but the moment those elevator doors had slid shut and gone Up, all Crowley had wanted was for him to come back. And if there was a way for him to get Up there himself, he would have, and damned the chances of being smitten. 

As it were, however — there wasn’t. There was no way for him to get to Aziraphale; no way to protect him from the beings who had hurt him more than anything else in the world, even if the angel wouldn’t say such a thing aloud. 

And so Crowley stayed in the next best place — even if being in the bookshop was a painful effort, more often than not. One that involved copious amounts of alcohol and long, long periods of sleep that would’ve been considered comas, were he a human. 

He stayed in the bookshop, and he waited, all while pretending he wasn’t.

He had tried to keep out of Aziraphale’s things, but because the bookshop as a whole was an amalgamation of all of his things, that was a hard thing to do. Crowley had accidentally come upon books with inscriptions lettered to Aziraphale in the covers, and a manila folder with photos of a small, warm-looking cottage clipped to a deed for it, and the near-century old Polaroid of Aziraphale and himself onstage at the West End, which the angel had kept all this time, tucked away in the pages of Brontë's Wuthering Heights.

There had been one day where he had come upon journals dated back to the 18th century and signed A. Z. Fell, and he hadn’t been able to stop himself from turning through the pages, so many of which had his own name alongside the angel’s. The phrase Crowley and I was written so frequently in Aziraphale’s elegant script that Crowley felt as if he could paper the walls with every instance of the phrase.

Crowley and I went out for a spot of lunch . . .

Crowley and I traveled to North Yorkshire this past week . . .

Crowley and I spoke of my fancy to open a bookshop; he seems to think it a wonderful idea . . .

Reading them had only served to make him feel worse, and Crowley had slept in his Bentley for a week.

On the whole, however, the bookshop seemed to have taken a liking to his company. The alcohol cabinets refilled themselves, and the record player had taken to playing what only Aziraphale would call 'be-bop' at opportune moments. The bookshop had even tolerated the fact that he had miracled blackout curtains over the extraordinary amounts of windows, so that he could sleep for days on end whenever he was feeling particularly despondent. 

Which was what he was trying to do right now, as he worked on getting extraordinarily drunk.

For the past several days, he had found himself in a bout of a particularly weighted melancholy. Those came and went; times where all he felt privy to do was sit around, drink, and think about how thoroughly he had mucked up trying to tell Aziraphale that he loved him.

And then, last night, it had turned into a full episode of despairing grief — because he had suddenly thought to have felt Aziraphale’s presence again.

Angels and demons could not ‘sense’ one another, generally. They could sense good and evil, respectively; but as beings were not as black-and-white as Heaven and Hell would like them to think, that did not mean that, definitively, an angel would know when he was speaking to a demon, and vice-versa — like how none of the Archangels had recognized Crowley when he’d meddled in the Job affair, for instance. 

For Crowley and Aziraphale, however, it had been different. For them, when the other was near, it was as if they became a part of one another; the feeling of a limb, or a missing one when they were apart.

They had theorized about it before, while drinking together (it was one of those things that was never too wise to think about when sober). Aziraphale had surmised that because they had been on Earth for such an extended time with one another, they just grew to recognize each others’ presences. Crowley had said that that couldn’t be right, because even in the earliest days, they had been able to know when the other was near (though he had supposed that perhaps it had taken a little longer in human terms, since the 'earliest days' for them was a couple of centuries at least). Eventually, they had decided that it was just how things were, with the two of them, and hadn’t spoken of it again.

When Aziraphale had gone to Heaven, it was just as it had been on the night of the bookshop fire: one moment, Crowley had felt him, and the next, he was gone.

And yet, just last night, Crowley swore he had felt him again.

He had been drinking (he was always drinking) in the back room of the bookshop, when he had felt it. All at once, in a rush of Aziraphale, as though the angel were right beside him. Crowley had sobered himself up the moment he had felt it, the moment he had felt him — but by then, he had gone, the feeling faded away, and the demon was left grasping at nothing. 

It had been so overwhelmingly devastating that Crowley had buried his face in his hands and moaned out choking sobs until he exhausted himself into unconsciousness. 

Now, he was sitting sprawled out in the same spot where he had broken down like that, clutching a bottle of whiskey in one hand, fingering his sunglasses with the other. He hardly ever took them off, now, even when he was completely alone. 

He had been there for a good while, now. In a way, he found comfort in it, to feel so much in these particular bouts of grief. Grief, he had found, was a terrible thing; but terrible things were too familiar to him to not feel almost at home in. Grief, and guilt, and despair . . .

That was probably why he was in the bookshop, and not sleeping in his car; it was his home in more ways than one. 

Crowley thought vaguely about when it had first become a home to him — the year 1800, when Aziraphale had first opened the shop. Crowley had come to congratulate him on finally opening that bookshop he’d wanted for centuries now, and had ended up having to do a little subterfuge to rid the angel of a certain Supreme Archangel. Once he had, he had strolled up to the doorstep; Aziraphale had invited him inside, beaming, and had told him that he was always welcome.

Well, Crowley thought bitterly, now — at least he was making use of that.

Just as he brought the whiskey bottle back up to his mouth to chase away those morose thoughts, there was the sudden sound of the tinkling of a bell, and the door to the bookshop — which, somewhere in the back of his hazy mind, he knew should’ve been deadbolted — swung open, then closed. 

Crowley’s head snapped up. He knew that the intruder wasn’t Aziraphale (he would feel him, if it was; would’ve been able to feel him from miles away), but despite that, the familiar sound made his heart jump, and his eyes burn with sudden grief. 

He had no idea what time it was, or what day it was, or — anything of the sort, really, but he did know one thing, and that was —

“We’re closed!”

Crowley snarled out the words as he swayed to his feet, swinging his arm around to slam the bottle down with more force than necessary. 

He stumbled out of the backroom to the front of the bookshop, where he found a young man who he didn’t recognize standing there. He was rather short, brown-skinned and soft-faced; his hair was dark and curly, and his hands were folded in front of himself. If Crowley had been paying attention to anything other than his own self-flagellation, he might have noticed right away the holed scars in those hands. 

“Shop’s closed,” he growled once more, smoldering. He snapped his fingers, fully intending on miracling the man out of the bookshop — but he merely smiled mildly at the demon, looking nonplussed.

“Oh, those don’t work on me, sorry,” he said, rather pleasantly. “It’s quite good to see you again, Crowley.”

Crowley stared at him.

It was only then he understood that he was staring at Him. 

(He sobered himself up very quickly, at that realization.)

“Oh,” he said, rather stupidly. His knees buckled a little, and he grabbed the nearest shelf for balance. It was true that angels and demons, generally, could not feel one another, Aziraphale and Crowley’s own exceptions aside; but every being, whether they be human or supernatural, could, so long as they were paying attention, feel the presence of God — and, by extension . . . “Jesus.”

“The very same,” said Jesus serenely, wearing a kind smile.

He was in a different corporation than Crowley had seen Him in last; much younger and softer-faced, this one. Though, now that Crowley was looking, he realized that despite the new body, Jesus still had the scars in His hands (and most likely in His feet and side, as well) from where He had been hung up on the cross, all the way back in 33 AD. For the doubting Thomases of the world, Crowley supposed — not that he was one. This, he knew, was Jesus; this, he knew, was the Son of God.

The implications of that — of the Son of God being here, in Aziraphale’s bookshop, speaking to a demon, offering a kind smile when Crowley had surely done nothing for it — were suddenly enough to make Crowley feel sick. He stared desperately across the room, blinking rapidly behind his sunglasses.

If Jesus was here, but Aziraphale was not . . .

Then something was wrong.

“What is it?” He croaked out. 

“I wanted a quick word with you,” Jesus said, “about your angel.”

Chapter Text

Things had started to go pear-shaped around the time Aziraphale had destroyed the Metatron.

Well — really, they had been going pear-shaped for a good while, by then. But that had been something of a tipping point, all things considered.

When Aziraphale had first gone back Up to Heaven, he had felt more conflicted than he had in his entire existence — even besides going against God’s Will for Job in 2500 B.C., and even besides initiating The Arrangement with Crowley in 1020. 

He had not been nearly as conflicted, when the Metatron had given him his offer over a cup of coffee. Well — he certainly had been at first, when the only offer on the table was for Aziraphale to return to Heaven and be given the role of Supreme Archangel — but the moment the Metatron had told him that Crowley could come with him, well. There hadn’t been anything left to be conflicted over, had there? Certainly, he would have to leave behind his bookshop, but — well, if it was between his bookshop and the chance to make a difference in the world for all of humanity, with Crowley at his side? There had been no conflict.

It had not been so simple, it seemed, for Crowley.

And Aziraphale understood why, to a point. He knew that Crowley didn’t trust Heaven. But — well, the fact of the matter was that Heaven was a place of goodness, even for all that the bureaucrats running it were often . . . misguided. And Aziraphale had the chance, here, to set them firmly on the right path: the path of protecting humanity, and the free will of the people of Earth.

Crowley hadn’t understood. He only wanted a world for them — or at least, that was his main priority. But Aziraphale, in good conscience, couldn’t give up the opportunity to build a better world for everyone. And — as it turned out, given the circumstances — he couldn’t give up the chance to keep that world from being erased from existence entirely.

(He couldn’t give it up; not even for what he, too, so desperately wanted, as much as it frightened him to the core to want it. To want him, rather. 

But that was not important, now.)

He had believed — truly believed — that he could make a difference. That he could save humanity from the Second Coming that Heaven was planning; a Second Coming that would bear the destruction of all evil — and, given that the angels all believed humanity to be evil, destruction of all humanity. 

A misguided belief, but one that Aziraphale had been sure he could correct. He could be a change for the better, so long as he was in charge . . . even if Crowley did not want to do it with him.

But — well. 

It had not taken him very long at all to come to the understanding that the only thing he was in charge of was what shade of white he would wear each day.

Aziraphale had certainly not accepted the position of Supreme Archangel of all Heaven because he had wanted power, but he had quite expected that said power would come with the role, and thus, the ability to enact positive change. 

He knew full well everything that had been under Gabriel’s command, when he had been Supreme Archangel. The other angels had all given him utmost deference, at least to his face. They all listened to him, and did as he said; he had had a say over everything to do with the first Armageddon, for instance. His word was law, third-in-command only to the Metatron and God (and Jesus, by extension, but He had been incorporeal for long enough that He wasn’t much considered, in the rankings of things).

Aziraphale, however — he was hardly treated with any respect at all, let alone was he listened to. 

The fact of the matter was that despite all of his assumptions about his new role, and despite everything the Metatron had implied when they had spoken at the coffee shop . . . Aziraphale was the Supreme Archangel in name, but that was about all. Besides the fancy new halo (which was not built to be worn by a former Principality, and gave him raging headaches every few days that could not even be miracled away) and the neat-pressed white suits he had been given, that was it. 

He should be being listened to, and should be being respected — both to the utmost degree! — and yet, the Archangels, and even most of the lesser angels, looked at him as though he were a demonic invader rather than their new boss, if that word even meant anything here.

It made him feel rather put-out — especially given that he felt that his ideas were really quite good. There were so many other things that they could do to and with humanity instead of the flat-out destruction of the work-in-progress Second Coming. They could send angels out across continents to promote good; they could help heal the environment, and settle long-run, pointless wars, and help the downtrodden back on their feet; they could heal incurable diseases, and reform corrupt governments, and make a world that was for everyone, not just for people born into well-off circumstances.

They could do so much to improve the Earth, and yet . . . all of the others would prefer to wipe it all out entirely. 

When he had ascended, Aziraphale had envisioned himself making real change — but all that he did instead was sit in days-long meetings (in which he was sat at the head of the table as if that meant anything; it didn’t), and look over decrees (no matter how many times he vetoed them, they got passed anyway), and avoid thinking about all of the things (or just one thing, rather) he had left behind.

(He wound up thinking about Crowley a lot of the time regardless. It took a great deal of moderation for him to not pop down to Earth every other day and check up on the demon; but he was sure that Crowley would be gone from Soho, anyway, and he was also sure that if he were to leave Heaven now in such despondency, he would surely never return. And he had to keep trying.)

The only thing he was really listened to about at all was when it came to information about Earth — though he was always staunchly ignored, when he made sure to stress just how much humanity shouldn’t be destroyed. When he made sure to tell his fellow angels how much good came from the people, how much love. 

No matter what he said about them, about the billions and billions of people on Earth, each and every one having the propensity for the most incredible of things — he was ignored.

But he wouldn’t give up. The Metatron had chosen him for a reason, hadn’t he? What was it that he had said — that they needed an angel of Aziraphale’s talents. An angel who understood Earth. Though admittedly, he had also said that Aziraphale would be leading, something that he decidedly was not doing.

And so, almost four months into being back in Heaven without any change to this frustrating standstill, Aziraphale decided to just ask him.

Aziraphale much preferred to speak with the Metatron when he was not a giant, floating head, and had assumed a more human corporation — as he had when he had come down to Earth, or when he had given Aziraphale his new halo, up in his own office. But beggars couldn’t be choosers (something Crowley had said to him quite often, though Aziraphale had not come to understand it until Edinburgh, 1827), and Aziraphale decided to speak with him — even when he was said giant, floating head — after the conclusion of one of those dragging, days-long meetings that felt more like eons, more often than not.

The moment the meeting had concluded and the Archangels began to disperse, Aziraphale had taken his chance.

“Sorry to bother, only — could I have a moment of your time?”

“Certainly, so long as you make it quick.” The Metatron’s voice was achingly loud, like this; it made Aziraphale wince, and the throbbing in his head, such a present company these days, ache more painfully. He hesitated for a moment, and the Metatron added, “Well, get on with it, then!”

“Yes — right.” Aziraphale had to force back another moment’s hesitation. “It’s only that — well, I was only wondering what I’m meant to be — to be doing here, exactly.”

“Well, aren’t you doing it already?” The Metatron regarded him with a disapproving look, and Aziraphale sucked in a small, calming breath to counter the panic that stirred in his chest at that. “You are advising your fellow angels on the happenings of Earth. You are seated at the head of the table, leading discussions on what is to come with your six thousand years of knowledge.”

“Yes, well — that is — somewhat true, but I feel that . . .” Aziraphale wrung his hands together, where he had clasped them behind his back. He forced his gaze to stay up, even against the instinct to bow his head to a superior. He was fighting to be heard; he should keep his head up. “Rather, I feel that I am not always being — listened to, as Gabriel was.”

“Gabriel was our only other Supreme Archangel, before yourself. Certainly, it may take the others a while to adjust,” the Metatron said reasonably. Aziraphale sagged a little in relief, at that.

“So you do think I will be listened to eventually? In — in saying that the Second Coming doesn’t have to be about destruction?” He asked hopefully.

“Oh, when it comes to that?” The Metatron chuckled, a booming sound that made Aziraphale wince, despair trickling in over his momentary relief. His head throbbed, and he resisted the urge to massage his temples as the Metatron continued, voice bordering on unctuous. “Oh, no. No, certainly not, Aziraphale.

“Your compassion is admirable. But these ideas of yours — they are foolish ones. The Second Coming is not a discussion; it is a certainty. It will bring about the end of the world, just as it was meant to happen nearly five years ago, now — don’t think it has been forgotten that you played a hand in preventing that, then. This is your second chance to fulfill what is meant to be.” 

The Metatron’s gaze had gone cold and steely. “Aziraphale, what you must understand is that you were on Earth for a very, very long time. You may have forgotten, in part, what our end goal is, as angels: to eradicate all of evil. When that demon . . . friend of yours tempted Eve to eat the apple, it brought evil into humanity.”

“That is — one way to look at it,” Aziraphale hedged, nervous, “but all it did, really, was give them the potential to be bad. They also have momentous potential to be good, and —,”

“That is your biases blinding you, Aziraphale,” the Metatron interrupted. “Your biases for humanity, and for the . . . demon.” A dangerous look passed over his enormous face and Aziraphale shrank slightly. “They are the only two things that hold you back from your own ‘momentous potential’, as you say.”

“. . . Crowley?” Aziraphale furrowed his brow to hide the look of pain that he was sure was visible in his features, both from his headache and from the mention of the demon. He wrung his hands tighter still, shifting anxiously in place. “How does he — but you invited me to bring him Up here, yes? Why would you, if he were . . . holding me back, as you say?”

The Metatron gave him an icy look.

“Come now, Aziraphale,” he said softly. “He has chosen his side now, has he not? And have you not?” 

“I — yes, rather,” Aziraphale agreed quickly, and he bowed his head slightly, having lost his nerve. It did not go unnoticed to him that the Metatron had neatly sidestepped the matter. “Of course.”

“Good,” the Metatron rumbled. “Not, do your best to remember that you were given the title of Supreme Archangel freely and in spite of your biases — but if those biases are impacting your decisions, there will be reconsideration. Do try to rid yourself of them. The Second Coming will come to pass; accept that, and you will be much happier here. And, yes, much more influential over your fellow angels.”

“Of course,” Aziraphale repeated, and was subsequently dismissed back to his own office.

And so, well. That was that.

It just didn’t make sense to him. 

Why would he be so specifically sought after, if he really was as biased as the Metatron claimed? If that bias really was causing him to be withheld from true understanding? Why would he be here, sitting at the head of the table, if that were so? And why would the Metatron offer him to reinstate Crowley as an angel, to have him by his side, if he was holding Aziraphale back? 

Had he ever even meant that offer at all, or had it just been a way to get Aziraphale to say yes?

But even if that was the case — the question was still, why?

After that conversation that had left him with more questions than answers (and questions, he knew, were not exactly the type of thing you went around asking, in Heaven), Aziraphale held his tongue, and worked to listen rather than speak. He kept his ideas to himself, and — when asked to provide input — he did not say a thing about saving humanity rather than damning them all. Not that he endorsed the latter; he just did not push for the former as he had been doing. It got him approving looks from both the Metatron and the Archangels — that he finally seemed to be conforming once more.

He wasn’t, of course — but they didn’t need to know that.

Subsequently, his efforts paid off, and the opportunity he needed to enact the change he so desperately wanted (and needed, for the world) fell right into his lap when, only a couple of months later, Aziraphale was summoned to the Metatron’s office, and came face-to-face with the Son of God.

“Oh — Lord,” he said, breathless at the sight of Him. 

Jesus gave him a returning smile, but looked somewhat perplexed at what, exactly, He was doing there. He was in a new corporation — much younger, softer-faced — and, Aziraphale supposed, that would throw off anyone, even the Son of God, who had been incorporeal for the past two millennia. The Metatron — also in his human corporation — said as much. 

“Jesus needs guidance in navigating His new corporation and His role in things to come.” He gave Aziraphale a piercing look. “This opportunity is for you to do your part in earnest, Aziraphale; this is your second chance to do the Lord’s work. Put your knowledge — your real knowledge — to good use. Guide Jesus in the state of the Earth today, and the subsequent reasoning for the Second Coming; He is a vital part of it, as you well know.”

“Of course — of course,” Aziraphale stammered out, eyes still fixed reverently on Him. Once, there had been a point where he had believed that the Metatron himself was as close to God as he would ever get. Now, he knew otherwise.

He also knew that this was his first real opportunity to change things — because Jesus had looked at the Metatron when he had mentioned the Second Coming in the same way Aziraphale knew he had done, right before following him into the elevator and going Up.

And so he seized that opportunity, of course. He had gotten lucky, really; the Metatron had seemed to believe that his speech to Aziraphale had given the Supreme Archangel a complete turnaround — had changed him to believe, as the other angels apparently did, that humanity was not at all worth saving. Aziraphale supposed that if you spent enough time around angels who had never known free will (or at least, had never recognized any of their actions as such), it became difficult to recognize one who had, in fact, learned a thing or two from people.

In reality, Aziraphale was starting to recognize just how right Crowley had been — to say that Heaven and Hell weren’t all that different, really. As a Principality, he had not seen all of the innermost works of Heaven’s planning like he was now; it was forcing him to come to terms with the knowledge that, at the crux of it all, both sides were exactly the same.

(When Heaven ends life here on Earth, it will be just the same as if Hell ended it. 

Oh, my dear, Aziraphale thought mournfully — far too often, these days, as he sat alone in his office, rubbing at his temples at the ever-persistent headache of his halo, wishing that things had gone differently; wishing that he had not, in fact, held such optimism for the possibilities of Heaven. How right you were. 

He knew, however, that if he had to do it again, he would still have gone.

He finally had a chance, after all. A chance to save . . . everything.)

Jesus, mercifully, was an absolute breath of fresh air. He had been quite confused at the start of it all — from what Aziraphale could gather, He had been with His Mother all this time, recovering from His thirty years on Earth; privately, Aziraphale thought that two thousand years was a bit of a long time for that, but then again, he had never been nailed up on a bloody cross by the humans in his six thousand years with them, so he supposed he wasn’t one to judge — but Aziraphale had been happy to answer all of His questions about His friends and family, about what Earth had been like for the past two millennia (that one took a rather long time to answer), about the state of affairs between Upstairs and Downstairs, et cetera.

In return, Aziraphale asked his own. Namely — what did Jesus think of the Second Coming, and Heaven’s plans for it?

Well. 

Unsurprisingly, the Son of God — who had gone down to Earth in the first place as a hope for humanity, who had died by their hand and yet returned once more to give them that hope — did not, in fact, want all of His hard work to go to waste.

And for the first time since returning to Heaven, Aziraphale was not the only one who believed Earth was worth saving.

In the following months, Aziraphale devoted all of his time in Heaven to the Son of God. They spoke mostly of what to do about the Second Coming, as well as Heaven as a whole, now that Aziraphale had finally seen the big picture of it. It was a broken place; meant to be the purveyor of hope for humanity, and yet, instead of valuing them at all, they looked down on them all. Them and their free will.

Jesus thought very highly of free will. It was, as it turned out, why He didn’t just step in and tell all the Metatron, and the angels, to stop the nonsense — because if He, unlike Aziraphale, said something, everyone had to listen to Him. Nepotism, and all that. 

“You could simply stop them from even entertaining the idea,” Aziraphale had sighed quietly one day, when he was deep in the throes of a particularly nasty bout of melancholy. It had been a difficult week, and he was missing Crowley (and his optimism; it was hard to find his own, these days) terribly. “Of the Second Coming, I mean.”

“I could,” Jesus agreed. He was sitting across from Aziraphale’s desk, leaning back and staring thoughtfully into the distance. As He spoke, however, He looked over to the angel. “But forcing righteousness upon someone is still forcing them.”

“But that’s what Heaven is trying to do to humanity,” Aziraphale protested, “only by destroying them all!”

“Yes,” Jesus said pensively. Aziraphale stared helplessly at Him. It was the crux of why he felt so poorly; that he, despite having the Son of God Himself on his side, felt helpless.

“Then surely it makes it different.”

“Does it?” Jesus tilted His head to one side thoughtfully, and rubbed almost absentmindedly at the scars in His hands; they followed Him through corporations, because of the weight of them, just as Crowley’s snake eyes and sigil followed him. “If I force Heaven’s hand — if I insist that they abate their plans of destruction — then I am just another being who is imposing His will on everyone else.” 

Aziraphale’s eyes were burning. He buried his face in his palms, drawing in a shuddering breath. 

It was hard not to feel hopeless, sometimes. Especially Up here in Heaven, where it seemed that everyone (but One) was against him in every way possible. Crowley had always been good at helping him through his times of melancholy — but Crowley was not here. It was just Aziraphale, and Jesus, who was as ineffable as the Almighty Herself in moments such as this.

“But You would be saving humanity,” he said, voice hoarse.

Jesus hummed. “I would. Just as I have done before; abating My Mother’s wrath through My death.”

“And that would be wrong?” Aziraphale implored. “To save them again? Only from Heaven’s wrath?”

The Son of God leaned back slightly in His chair. 

“Can I tell you a story, Aziraphale?”

The angel gestured a hand weakly, in a go on sort of gesture. If there was one thing he had learned about Jesus in these past few months, it was that He loved to tell stories.

“You likely know it already; it is well-known,” Jesus continued, His eyes taking on a faraway sort of look that Aziraphale had come to recognize. “And perhaps you have been told it already; from the serpent’s mouth, as it were.” Aziraphale startled a bit at that, and Jesus smiled.

“When I was beginning My ministry in earnest, on Earth, there were many times when I would go to be alone; to think, to pray, to speak with My Mother. On one occasion, I entered the desert of Judea, with the intention of fasting for forty days in prayer. But I was found by —,”

“Crowley,” Aziraphale breathed out, his heart aching. 

“Crowley,” Jesus agreed, still smiling. “He was there on orders to tempt Me, and tempt Me he tried to do. I knew My Mother’s plans for what the end of My time on Earth would look like; I knew the pain and the suffering I would endure, and Crowley, too, had some idea of it; word from the grapevine, you know. He offered Me a way out of Her Plan for Me. If I had said yes, I would still have had all of the power of God on Earth — with the absence of that pain and suffering that I was to endure.”

“But You refused,” said Aziraphale softly. He did know the story; he had read it in the Bible, and he had heard Crowley’s rendition of it. The demon had been mightily offended that, just as with the story of Eden, he had been mistaken for Satan, himself. 

Jesus nodded. “I did.”

“Why?” 

Jesus looked down at His hands once more; at the scars in them. 

"Because a good thing achieved the wrong way remains wrong,” He said. “I had a choice, Aziraphale, and I chose the harder path. The one that preserved what I had come to Earth to preserve.” Jesus paused for a moment; when He spoke again, His voice was impossibly gentle. “Not unlike you, Aziraphale, and your choice to come Up to Heaven.”

Aziraphale felt his chest welling with familiar despair, and he bit his lip.

"Saving humanity is not wrong,” he said, near-brokenly. 

"No," Jesus agreed. "But teaching Heaven that obedience matters more than choice would be. That is the importance of free will — you know as well as I do, even if Heaven remains willfully ignorant to it. Free will isn't proven when people choose what is right, Aziraphale; it's proven when they are allowed to choose what is wrong.”

Aziraphale shook his head. “That — well, it just seems a rather dangerous system,” he murmured. He had known that already, of course; but to this scale, it just seemed so much more, as he had said, dangerous. Jesus nodded once more.

“It is.”

“And you're content to leave humanity's fate to it?”

“No,” Jesus said softly. “That's why we're trying to save them.”

It was true, that they were trying — subtly, but influentially. With Jesus backing him, Aziraphale was able to start slipping suggestions of humanity being worth saving back into discussions, and though he still wasn’t being listened to, he was, at the very least, being heard. If proven only by the looks that the Metatron kept giving the both of them, which made Aziraphale very nervous — but he never said anything. They were treading a very, very fine line indeed.

In the moments after those big meetings, however — in the shadows of all the doom that may be to come — Jesus had become something of a sympathetic ear, and then a kind advisor, to Aziraphale, about things other than the Second Coming. He was earnest and good-hearted — truly good-hearted, in a way that brought a little more hope, a little more optimism, back into Aziraphale’s bleak doubts. He told Him all about his time spent on Earth; the six thousand years amongst humanity; the bookshop he had made his home.

He told Him about Crowley.

Jesus, of course, already knew Crowley — from the tempting, and their concurrent touring of all the kingdoms of the world. 

But Aziraphale told Him about his Crowley. 

About the Crowley he had gotten to know for six thousand and four years, ever since he had been standing alone on the wall of Eden, and the serpent had slithered up beside him and said, Well, that went down like a lead balloon. About the Crowley who cared about humanity just as much as Aziraphale did, even if he had some things (or rather, one being) who he cared about more. 

About the Crowley who, Aziraphale was beginning to realize, was far more innately good than Heaven had ever been.

Jesus was the first, and only, person who Aziraphale told about what had happened in the bookshop.

And Jesus, Aziraphale came to understand, saw everything in wonderful shades of gray.

(Aziraphale had, so badly, wanted nothing more than to abandon everything and return to Crowley at once, after that conversation. 

He understood, with sudden, aching clarity, why Crowley had not wanted him to go back to Heaven — not only because he had wanted them to stay together, but because he had known exactly what Heaven would do to him. Crowley had seen all of this long before Aziraphale had; had seen what Aziraphale could not see, until he was caught in the throes of it.

But Aziraphale also knew, now, that he could never have stayed behind. Not while all of humanity was in danger — and not while there was even the smallest chance that he might be able to make a difference.

Crowley had been right to ask him to stay — but Aziraphale had been right to go.

That didn’t make staying any easier, now. But he did it anyway, because even if he felt helpless — even if he felt hopeless — he had to try. He was trying.

And so he stayed.)

At a point during all of this, Aziraphale finally came to the understanding of why he had been appointed as Supreme Archangel by the Metatron in the first place.

Muriel had gone down to Earth for a routine one-year miracle check on Maggie and Nina (who Aziraphale had never confessed to having not miracled, but who, to his relief, had, in fact, gotten together), and had stopped by the bookshop on his request. He had told them that it would likely be in disarray, but to not worry about it; he just wanted to ensure that it was still there.

They had come back, however, and told him that it was in tip-top condition — nary a book out of place — and that his ‘demon friend’ had been there. ‘Drinking a lot of human substances’, they had added cheerfully.

Oh, Crowley, Aziraphale had thought mournfully, before hastening to ask everything he could, lest some other angel (or, God forbid, the Metatron) come upon them.

“But he seemed . . . how did he seem?” He asked, somewhat desperately.

“Are you asking about his well-being?” Muriel asked curiously. “He asked about yours, too. I wasn’t sure what it meant, but once he explained it, I told him you were alright, I thought. But, he seemed a bit . . .” They searched for a word for a full minute, looking unsure, before brightening as they found one. “Lost?”

“Lost,” Aziraphale echoed.

“Yes,” Muriel replied thoughtfully. “Like he didn’t know what he was supposed to be doing.”

“I see,” Aziraphale said softly, keeping his gaze lowered so that they would not see the grief there. 

He thanked them and sent them away, despair bleeding at his heart, pain throbbing at his temples. He sat down at his desk, isolated in one of Heaven’s many lonesome corners. Jesus was having one of His monthly meet-ups with the Metatron, meant to check how much progress Aziraphale was making with Him in informing Him of why humanity needed to be wiped clean off the face of the Earth, along with everything else. It was another way they were, truly, threading a very, very thin line — but Aziraphale could not bear thinking about that at the moment. He could not bear thinking about anything other than Crowley. 

Aziraphale buried his face in his hands. He did not weep, but it was a near thing.

A year. 

A year had passed, and Crowley was still in Soho. He was in Soho, and he was caring for the bookshop, and he was asking after Aziraphale’s well-being — even after everything that had happened between them, before Aziraphale had gone. A year had passed, and Crowley had stayed. 

Aziraphale wiped at his eyes with the heels of his palms, gulping in a deep breath. 

A year had passed, and Crowley was still waiting for him.

As he mulled mournfully over all of this, feeling very regretful indeed, Aziraphale had a sudden epiphany. 

The miracle. 

The very miracle that Muriel had been sent to verify in the first place . . . the very reason they had gone back, for a customary upcheck . . .

Hadn’t it set off alarms in Heaven and Hell, when he and Crowley had hidden Gabriel together? Hadn’t it been to such a powerful degree that it could’ve risen Lazerus twenty times over? Hadn’t it been a miracle he had done with Crowley, and yet didn’t Heaven believe he had done it himself? Or — he knew Crowley had mentioned it, briefly, to the Archangels, that when they did a miracle together it worked a little too well, but in the excitement of Gabriel and Beelzebub and then the Metatron — would they even have remembered?

Perhaps, he supposed, he had been made Supreme Archangel because the Metatron believed he was the only angel with the miraculous capabilities that fit the bill of it.

He suggested it to Jesus, later (while omitting his brief breakdown; he had had plenty in front of Him already, and there was no need to rehash what had happened in the bookshop), and He agreed that that was probably it.

“They like to keep all their eggs in one basket,” He said thoughtfully. “They’re so very unlike my Mother, in that way. Especially with the two of us, if you’re right on why you’re here. Their two golden eggs, together.”

“Quite,” Aziraphale said.

It was a fatal mistake, for the Metatron to have done.

And as for the two of them — well, they couldn’t tread a thin line forever.

The Metatron seemed to be beginning to realize just how big of a mistake he had made, in giving Aziraphale unfettered access to the Son of God. Jesus particularly had become more and more outspoken about His own beliefs on humanity, to the point that He was, in fact, beginning to sway a few of the angels — Uriel and Saraquel, namely, had begun listening intently to Him, as well as many of the lower-ranking angels. 

It wasn’t difficult to predict who would be taking the fall for that — when that thin line finally snapped.

The Metatron had called Aziraphale to stay behind a meeting one day, not unlike Aziraphale had asked of him, over a year ago now. He regarded him with one of his coldest stares as he loomed above the Supreme Archangel, the head seeming even larger than usual. 

“As I am sure you recall it, Supreme Archangel Aziraphale,” said the Metatron, voice as booming as ever (and, as ever, making Aziraphale’s head throb wearily), “you were tasked with informing the Son about the state of the Earth, is that correct?”

“. . . Yes,” Aziraphale replied slowly, not quite liking where this was going and realizing, with some part of himself, that this was the equivalent of the story of Icarus: he may have flown too close to the sun. He kept his head slightly bowed; he had realized that small displays of submission went a long way in gaining trust, over the years, and figured he may as well utilize that knowledge. Not that it would do him any favors, now.

“And you have been doing so?”

“Of course, yes.”

There was a long, heavy pause.

“You mean to say that you have been telling Him all about the sins of the world —,” The Metatron’s voice had gone chillingly soft, echoing against the blank, white walls of Heaven — “and yet He is taking every opportunity He is given to call humanity good?” 

There was another long pause.

“Do you know who that reminds me of, Aziraphale?”

Aziraphale’s mouth had gone very dry. 

“Jesus — thinks very highly of people,” he tried, “He — I have done my best —,”

“And yet you agree with Him each and every time he speaks.” The Metatron’s tone was so icy, it sent a chill down Aziraphale’s back. “Each and every time He speaks for the species that killed Him, the only person to ever be pure and without sin. And He would argue that they are a species worth saving?” He laughed quietly, and it was a terrible sound. “No, Aziraphale. Do you want to know what I think?”

Aziraphale said nothing. He was scrambling to figure out what, if anything, he should say.

“I think, Aziraphale —,” 

The Metatron’s voice became more booming and dangerous, louder than Aziraphale had ever heard it, and he shrank back, afraid, because as much as he had come to understand about Heaven, and about himself, in the time he had spent there and with Jesus in particular, old habits died hard — old habits, of submitting to the bureaucracies, even when he knew them to be wrong. Old habits, of cowering and nodding, out of fear of being cast out of the sight of the Lord.

But, he reminded himself — Her Son was on his side.

He would not be forsaken.

He stopped cowering, and he looked right into the Metatron’s face just as the man snapped.

“— I think that you never ridded yourself of your sinful biases, despite my truly believing you to be reformed. I think that you picked one too many things from Earth, and from your demon friend there. I think that you are manipulating not only your fellow angels, not only me, but the Son of God, Himself!” There was an enormous vein bulging in his enormous forehead as his expression contorted with rage; it was the first time Aziraphale had ever seen him lose his temper in such a way, even after he himself had been, he was sure, testing it. “And I think that you are purposefully sabotaging the God’s Plan of destruction for the world, as written in the Book of Revelation —,”

“Actually,” Aziraphale interrupted boldly, “St. John was quite fond of strange mushrooms at the time, and those predictions were —,”

“Silence!” The Metatron boomed. “You are an insolent, disobedient, sinful angel who has grown far too comfortable with free will on Earth, and it is nothing short of a miracle that God has not cast you down to Hell. As such,” he continued — suddenly very calm, which was far more intimidating than his outburst had been — “as the Voice of God, I have . . . liberties over such things . . .” 

He blinked (the handless way of snapping his fingers, Aziraphale supposed), and abruptly, Michael and Sandalphon — the two Archangels who had not given a moment’s consideration to even Jesus’s words, at least not earnestly — appeared at Aziraphale’s sides.

“Shall we escort him to the elevator?” Sandalphon asked eagerly. The Metatron curled his lip.

“Unfortunately,” he said in a low growl, “and despite your disappointing disobedience and sinfulness, Aziraphale, you are still an angel of a certain . . . caliber.” (Aziraphale, who was working very hard to keep his head on straight as all of this happened at once, at least had the wherewithal to think half-hysterically, We were right; it was the miracle.) “And we need many angels of said caliber for our plans of what to come. Therefore . . . I believe extreme sanctions are in order.”

Aziraphale stiffened; at his sides, Sandalphon leaned forward, and Michael gave a sharp, excited inhale.

The Book of Life.

The thing about the Second Coming was that, technically, they couldn’t do it without Jesus’s cooperation — which they didn’t have, since He was not stopping them from planning and preparing and whatnot, but He was also not endorsing any of what they were doing, nor was He privy to go along with it. He was, in fact, endorsing the opposite — more and more as of late, which was likely why Aziraphale was in this situation to begin with. 

What they did have, however, was the Book of Life, and the Metatron had been making vaguely threatening statements about how a lack of cooperation would have ‘extreme consequences’ for a while now, as they had treaded their careful, thin line that, here, had finally snapped in two. Those threats had never been this pointed until now.

Aziraphale had long thought the Book of Life to be a myth, until Uriel had threatened him with it, back in the bookshop; he had asked Jesus about it, at one point, and He had told him that yes, it was real. It was real — though it had never actually been used before, to His knowledge, because it had so many unknown factors, and was too much of a stab in the dark. 

But if the Metatron was implying that he both had it and could use it, without a care to what could happen . . .

That was bad.

And then it got worse.

“But, as I said — we need angels of your caliber, Aziraphale. And to encourage you to finally root out your deep-seated sinfulness, I think it best to remove the one who planted that seed within you in the first place.”

And the Metatron sealed his fate.

In hindsight, Aziraphale might’ve benefited from fully thinking out a real plan.

But, well . . .  the Metatron was threatening Crowley, and it was too big a gamble; he couldn’t risk it. He did not doubt in the slightest that they would not hesitate to erase Crowley if they thought that it would force Aziraphale’s hand into support for the Second Coming, by making the being who had opened his eyes to the truth of Heaven and Hell, of demons and angels, of free will, never have existed. By making the very purveyor of free will never have existed . . .

He couldn’t risk it. 

He couldn't risk him. 

The thing with the halo had been, Aziraphale admitted to himself, a rather impulsive choice.

But he had been getting so tired of the headaches.

Chapter Text

When it came to hardened, judgmental angels like Michael and Sandalphon, they saw Aziraphale as — to put it kindly — a doddering old fool of an angel, who was far too human to be of any threat at all. 

As much as that fact had contributed to many of Aziraphale’s failures and frustrations in Heaven for the past year and seven months, it worked in his favor now, with the two Archangels having been set to ‘guard’ him. It was far too easy to give them the slip, which Aziraphale had done with a bit of well-placed misdirection before hurrying his way upstairs to one of Heaven’s top floors (as the alarms began to blare; Michael and Sandalphon were arrogant, but they weren’t idiots) and sneaking into the Metatron’s office.

Clearly, the Metatron (who was, mercifully, elsewhere) had also underestimated him. Though, really, he had been doing that from the very beginning. In assuming that Aziraphale had conformed so quickly, after only four months in Heaven and one sternly-worded lecture, he had unknowingly given the angel the only thing capable of changing everything as easily as breathing.

Not that He did so, of course — free will, and all that noise — but the sentiment remained nonetheless.

With likely very limited time, Aziraphale raided through the Metatron’s seemingly endless drawers upon drawers of files. He found nothing, and was close to panicking, when his attention fell upon something that his eyes, which had been glancing around the room frantically, had passed over at first — the righthand corner of the Metatron’s desk, which was engraved with runic, Biblical symbols and inscribed with Aramaic.

סִפְרָא

The Book. 

It couldn’t be that easy.

Aziraphale brushed a tentative, trembling hand over it. 

As he did, his halo burned, and he crumpled to his knees, clutching at his head with a low, keening wail of pain, waiting for the waves of anguish to pass. When it had finally dulled to a more tolerable piercing throb, he stood back up on shaky legs and found that the runes had come apart, revealing a hidden compartment. 

His eyes went wide at the sight, and he dropped a hand from the crown of his head to press trembling fingers over his fluttering heart.

It had been that easy.

(Another fatal mistake, he would think to himself later on, was the Metatron offering him a promotion in the first place.

Any other angel could have smashed through the desk entirely, and found nothing.

But the Metatron had made him Supreme Archangel of all Heaven — and thus, the Book opened for him.)

There were two books in the hidden compartment, as a matter of fact. There was a leather-bound, scarlet Bible in its original, Aramaic text; and there was a gold-bound, thick tome, that — when Aziraphale flipped through it with shaking hands — seemed never-ceasing in its pages upon pages containing the names of every single thing, every single being, in the universe.

Aziraphale did not have to flip very far — though unlike any other book, the pages did not pile up as he made his way through them, and the book did not get any shorter, nor any longer; it simply continued — to find what he was looking for. 

In fact, what he was seeking out was hardly a hundred pages in; one of Her very first Creations, as She had called legions of angels into being with a Word, and with a page of the Book.

At the top of the page was a scorch mark, in the shapes of what may once have been letters.

In the middle of the page was the name Crawly, with a thin line etched neatly through it.

At the bottom of the page —

Crowley. 

Aziraphale slammed the Book shut and held it tightly to his chest. His eyes were burning with tears; his head was throbbing with pain. 

He felt more overwhelmed than he had ever been in his long, long life, and yet he still had room in his chest for aching relief, and for, despite it all, the barest hints of optimism and hope. Hope — that as long as he had this Book, everything was going to be all right, because Crowley would be safe. 

And then there was a bang, and the door to the Metatron’s office flung open — and there stood the man himself, in his Earthly corporation, face bulging with rage. 

He held out a hand — to bring the Book to himself, certainly — and Aziraphale, without even thinking, his head still throbbing, shoved the Book under one arm, lifted his hands to the crown of his head, pulled away the halo of the Supreme Archangel (biting his lip so hard he bled, as it burnt through the skin of his fingers and singed a ring of fiery pain around his head), and hurled it directly at the Metatron, who screamed. First with fury — then with fear, and disbelief, and shrieking horror.

“AZIRAPHALE —!” 

The following explosion was so extraordinary, it blew the entire room to pieces. The alarm began to wail impossibly louder, pristine white flashing with angry, searing red. 

And in front of Aziraphale was a scorched shadow of what had once been the Metatron.

Aziraphale had seen it through a haze of pain so intense his teeth were chattering with the force of it, and it had not registered to him, exactly what he had just done. All he was focused on was the Book under his arm — which he pulled tightly back to his chest with burn-scorched hands — and getting the Heaven out of Heaven. 

The good news in impulsively blowing up his halo was that Heaven should not be able to find him, so long as he didn’t use any noticeable miracles — and so long as he went to a place where they wouldn’t expect him to be.

And, against whatever odds had been so against him as of late — he did have such a place. A place that he had had his eye on for decades, back on Earth, but had only made his own after the averted Armageddon. A place that only he knew of, serene and tucked-away in a corner of peace.

A place that was exactly where he could go, so that Heaven would not find him.

(So that he could keep Crowley safe.)

Aziraphale fled to the elevator, pressing his shoulder into the button to summon it while keeping the Book held to his chest. As he leaned there, gulping in heaving breaths, Jesus very suddenly appeared at his side, looking as shaken as the Son of God could look.

It was not until that very moment that Aziraphale realized that the Metatron was dead.

It was not until that very moment that he realized — he had killed him.

He had killed him. 

“Aziraphale,” was all Jesus said, His voice thick with sadness, and Aziraphale’s lips trembled. His head was throbbing, and his hands were burning, and there was grief and guilt and terror seizing at his chest, but he could hardly feel any of it over the numb shock creeping over the very essence of his being, making him go cold.

“Is he —?” He choked out, hoping against (or perhaps for?) himself.

“He is . . . gone. Very gone.” There was deep regret in Jesus’s gaze, though for what exactly Aziraphale did not know. He only knew that He looked as though He wished things had gone very differently — something Aziraphale recognized, because so did he.

“I — I needed it,” Aziraphale stammered out, trying to explain the unexplainable, because he had just killed someone. “The Book. He was — he said —,” Then, helplessly, unable to say anything else at all: “Crowley.” 

Understanding dawned on Jesus’s face, and He closed His eyes for a moment, a look of intense grief and anger passing over His face. 

“Of course,” He murmured with sorrow, lifting His scarred hands to His face and breathing out deeply. He dropped them again after a moment, lifting His gaze and looking Aziraphale in the eye. 

“You should go to him.”

“I can’t,” Aziraphale choked out, shaking his head sparingly through the pain of it. “I mustn’t.”

Jesus looked at him sadly. “You know he would want you to.”

It was the first time Jesus was trying to convince him to do anything — and when the Son of God encourages you to do something, you really had best do it. But Aziraphale was afraid, and he was in pain, and he was rattled to his core, the sight of a mere shadow where a being had once been etched into the backs of his eyes, and —

And Crowley — Crowley had nearly been erased from existence, because of him. 

He could not go to him. He could not bear it.

(He needed Crowley to be safe.)

And so he shook his head despite how much it hurt, and he blinked back burning tears, and he heard Jesus sigh before He spoke.

“Wherever you go, you must leave now,” He said urgently, as the elevator arrived behind Aziraphale and, simultaneously, there came the sounds of fast-moving, angelic footsteps from nearby. Aziraphale’s face paled, and Jesus reached out.

“But, wait — let Me heal you, first —,”

But Aziraphale had gone, and then, only a few moments later, he burst into the night of Soho in a flurry of white wings and soared away, not hesitating for even a heartbeat — because he knew that if he did, he would find himself on the doorstep to his bookshop, hoping against hope to find Crowley still inside.

Aziraphale flew and flew, beating his wings against the night sky with such vigor that each one of his feathers seemed to ache and quiver from the force of it. He clutched the Book to his chest with just as much desperation, clenching down his hands when they threatened to shake from the thoughts whirling through his mind.

He had destroyed the Metatron.

He had done that.

Even during the Great War, Aziraphale had avoided killing anyone. He had not so much as knowingly stepped on an ant, in his six thousand and four years on Earth. 

And yet, he just had. He had ended a life.

(The worst part was that he was, in a way, glad. 

The Metatron had threatened Crowley. He had been leading the charge for Heaven’s demands for a Second Coming. He had been playing things by his own rules, rather than his original intent at being the ‘Voice of God’ — evidenced as such that he had not even deigned to listen to Jesus Christ’s own words.

And — again — he had threatened Crowley. 

Well. He was no threat, any longer.

And Aziraphale had done that — and he was glad.

But he was also horrified, and sickened, and angry with himself, and wishing beyond all hope that he could start everything over again and do them right. Only, he did not even know if that was a possibility, when things had always seemed to be so wrong, when it came to Heaven. 

If only Aziraphale had seen that sooner. Or rather — had accepted it.)

It didn’t take him long to get to where he was going — the place where he thought that, surely, no one would find him, even the ones who might be looking. The door opened for him, and he stumbled his way inside, blinking around in dazed dismay at the unkempt state of it. 

He had not thought of this place since he had left for Heaven; he had not really considered anything much that he was leaving behind on Earth, with the exception of Crowley. Without Crowley, anything else rather lost its point — even a place like this, which Aziraphale had taken ownership of with himself and the demon in mind in the first place.

On instinct, Aziraphale waved a hand for a minor restoration miracle — then froze, breathless, for a long, long moment, his hands beginning to shake in earnest around the Book. He was almost certain that even that small miracle would bring legions of angels down upon him, ready to cast him into Hell (or into the darkest, loneliest corners of Heaven as they awaited the Second Coming) and to tear the page with Crowley’s name on it from the Book of Life — but no retribution came. 

He reminded himself, if only to calm his thundering heart, that Heaven did not track everything an angel did; if they did that, then he would’ve been cast out long ago for his Arrangement with Crowley, and the many temptations he had done over the centuries. It was only when they started getting high in volume, or large in scale, that they started noticing.

Things would be utter chaos Up there right now, anyway. On account of him having killed the Metatron.

With that hollow thought in mind, Aziraphale took a stumbling step inside. He pulled in his wings, and the force of the motion made him stumble; his knees buckled, and he fell to the floor in a curled-up heap, still holding the Book tightly to his chest. He did not even have the strength — physical or mental — to pull himself up to the nearest armchair; rather, he simply lay his head down on the floor, closed his eyes, and began to cry silently.

He was so tired. 

He was so tired, and he had done something so terrible in the works of trying to do only the best things for all of humanity — only, that wasn’t it, really, was it? He had done that terrible thing, he had destroyed the Metatron, for something else. For someone else. 

(And he was glad for it.

Because he wanted to save humanity — to save the world. It was why he had gone to Heaven in the first place; why he had accepted the role of Supreme Archangel, back when he had believed that he could change things. He wanted to help people.

But the thing he really wanted, the thing he wanted most . . . 

Well.)

He may have wrecked everything with Crowley, when he had gone back Up to Heaven. He may have threatened the demon’s very existence, through doing everything he had only done to try and help the world.

But at least — now that he had the Book — Crowley would be safe.

And maybe, with the Book gone, and the Metatron destroyed, and Jesus on humanity’s side . . . everyone would be.

He could only pray — pray, and hope that Someone was listening.

Someone was listening. 

And the very next day, Someone walked into Aziraphale’s bookshop, and smiled pleasantly at a rather disheveled-looking demon, and asked to speak with him about the very angel who had prayed to be heard.

Chapter Text

“Okay. Alright. Okay. Let me see if I’m — if m’ understanding this right.”

Crowley was holding a glass of wine so tightly in his white-knuckled grip that it was at serious risk of shattering. He was pinching the bridge of his nose in between two fingers, pushing up his sunglasses to rub at his eyes and taking in very deep, very calming breaths, so that he didn’t snap and hurl the glass at the wall before it even got a chance to explode in his hand.

“You’re telling me,” he said slowly, “that Aziraphale — Aziraphale! Killed — killed! — the Metatron.”

“Yes,” said Jesus, very patiently; this was the third time Crowley had asked Him to repeat Himself. It was just that, Crowley was having a great deal of trouble wrapping his head around the fact of the matter. 

After convincing himself for nineteen morose months that Aziraphale would be up to his neck in abuse and mistreatment from Heaven, and then convincing himself that, as Aziraphale had done for six thousand years, he would be taking it lying down, and that Crowley would be able to do nothing to protect him as he endured it all . . . 

Well, he certainly needed a moment (maybe several) to process that he had, in fact, stood up for, and protected, himself. In a rather unangelic (or, really, un-Aziraphale-like) manner.

“I don’t think Aziraphale’s ever even smacked a mosquito,” Crowley mumbled faintly. He straightened up for a moment to pour himself more wine, only to fall back against the same couch he’d been drinking on earlier, and was now drinking on again. Jesus was sitting in Aziraphale’s armchair right across from him. He had been explaining all of this to Crowley for the better part of the last hour, and the demon was struggling to come to grips with it all. “How could he have done that?”

“It wasn’t on purpose, I don’t believe.” Jesus’s voice was thoughtful, considering. “I got to know Aziraphale quite well in the time we spent together in Heaven — though, of course, you know him better than anyone.” The statement, said so matter-of-factly, made Crowley twitch. “Aziraphale was . . . well. Rather hysterical when I saw him afterward, however brief that was. He was certainly not proud of what he had done.”

Crowley shook his head, feeling slightly ill. He was thinking, horribly, of Aziraphale realizing he had killed someone, even someone as smarmy as the Metatron. The sick feeling of how Aziraphale must be feeling did, unfortunately, override Crowley’s own private victory over the bastard’s demise — because, come on, it was the Metatron, and he was a demon; he was allowed to be a little gleeful over it. 

Only of course, it was hard to really be gleeful about anything, given the circumstances.

“And he did that because — because —,”

“Because the Metatron seemed to have threatened you, yes.”

“Right,” Crowley said thinly, feeling as though he had been punched in the throat. 

Because, no, rather. Aziraphale had not been standing up for himself.

He had been standing up for Crowley. 

Crowley thought he might, actually, be sick — something he hadn’t been since 1827, when he had been dragged Down to Hell for his ‘doing good’ business in Edinburgh and had vomited all over Beelzebub’s shoes before they could even start lecturing him and shouting at him and ripping out his vital (were he human) organs, and whatnot. 

He drank — deeply — from his glass, and swallowed back bile along with the wine.

“And then he — he left Heaven,” he croaked out, “and he came back to Earth.”

As it turned out, when he had felt Aziraphale the night before, it had actually been him. 

He had been so close, so fucking close — and yet, he had not come, and Crowley had not gone to him in time. Though the feeling of his presence had faded so fast, Crowley supposed he must’ve flown off or somehow miracled himself somewhere else faster than a heartbeat.

Crowley still blessed himself for not having reached him anyway.

“What does Heaven look like now?” He asked — more briskly, because if he kept on thinking about nothing but Aziraphale, he thought that there was a good chance lightning would come down and strike him right there in the bookshop, and then all of his efforts to keep it in (as the angel would say) ‘tip-top shape’ would be wasted. “Who’s running things?”

“I believe that the Archangel Michael has already been taking things into her own hands," Jesus said. “But it’s all quite a bureaucratic mess. It was rather a mess already, however; how could it not be, with all of them wishing for the annihilation of Earth?” 

For a moment, anger flitted across His young face, and when He next spoke, Crowley could hear it in His voice. 

“You see, Crowley — and I’m sure you understand this already — the entire purpose Heaven has for wanting the Second Coming is because the idea of free will frightens them.” 

“But that’s lunacy!” Crowley exclaimed. He did understand it already, and this was a rant that had been boiling within him for a good while, each and every time Aziraphale had fretted over a human making a choice that Heaven wouldn’t approve of. “Your Mother came up with that one, She’s the one who gave them the option!” (Though privately, he recognized, he had been the one to really give it to them. The temptation with the apple, and all. He was almost certain they would’ve eaten it without his influence, anyway; he was just a scapegoat. Smart plan from God, that.) “What’re they gonna do next, go ‘round smiting all the spiders ‘cause Michael doesn’t like creepy-crawlies?”

Jesus nodded, looking grave. “It is all rather corrupt,” He said sadly, “and they do not seem to realize that they, too, are exhibiting free will in all of their actions. And that they have such capacity for goodness, just as humans do, if only they would be more inclined towards it. This is what Aziraphale and I worked to try and help them understand.” He sighed, shaking His head. “We were making progress. But I’m afraid that, right now — and for a while — Heaven is, and has been . . .”

“A bloody mess,” Crowley supplied, shaking his head. “Hell is, too.” He frowned suddenly, absentmindedly twirling the glass in his hand. “Surprised they haven’t come to call, what with all of this going on.”

Jesus hummed. “I believe there is a certain Duke Shax who has, in fact, been sending missives Up to Michael about the massive explosion Upstairs, actually,” He said.

“Of course she would be,” Crowley snarled. He ground his teeth together, one foot beating an anxious, angry tattoo into the carpeted floor. “Bet you anything all of ‘em Downstairs would love to get their hands on the Book of Life . . .”

The Book of Life. He hadn’t actually believed it to be real; not even after the Gabriel debacle. Surely it was, as he’d always thought, just a lie to get the angels to stay in line. Surely, if it had been real, then all of the Fallen would have been wiped from existence after the Great War.

It made no bloody sense — but then, he supposed, neither did anything else, when it came to God.

Though, he also supposed that if he were the one responsible for a Book with God’s own writing, detailing the past, present, and future of each and every being and thing in existence — he wouldn’t much want to mess with it, either. 

He really just hadn’t believed it had existed at all. He would’ve preferred that — obviously. Most would, he thought.

But no, Jesus had told him; it was real. It was very real, and Aziraphale had taken it. Aziraphale had taken it, and then he had blown up his halo and destroyed the Metatron, and fled Heaven with the Book clutched to his chest like he was holding on to his own heart. Or at least, that was how Jesus had described it.

Jesus was nodding somberly, now. “Both sides are more similar than they realize,” He said, voice weary. 

Crowley jerked his head in agreement. 

“Where is Aziraphale now?” He asked in a low growl — getting back to what was actually important.

“That, I don’t know,” Jesus answered (and, honestly, Crowley had always liked Him, but did He have to take so much after His Mother by being so bloody unhelpful?), “not exactly, at least. I do know, however, that he did not go too far. It’s not as if he’s in America, or anything such as that; he’s still on the continent.”

“America,” Crowley spat. The last thing he had needed at that moment was a mention of America. 

He drank heartily from his glass, and it refilled itself quickly out of fear of him throwing it at the nearest bookshelf. He looked into it, frowning pensively. Emotion was making his throat close up, and he drank again to chase away the feeling, swallowing tightly enough that it hurt.

“Why wouldn’t he come to me?” He said at last, voice very nearly stricken.

“He wouldn’t have wanted to put you in danger, I’m sure,” Jesus responded softly. “He must’ve felt as though he had already, when the Metatron threatened you. And . . .” He paused for a moment, considering. 

“He told me about your — last few moments together. It weighed on him. Heavily. I wouldn’t doubt it, if it had influenced his choices.”

Crowley coiled in on himself at the words, a choked sound escaping from his throat. He had fought against thinking about those last few moments together that they had shared, before Aziraphale had gone to Heaven, ever since they had happened, and now, it was all he could think about. If he had done things differently, then — perhaps things would not be as completely fucked as they were.

(We’ve known each other a long time —)

It had taken every atom of his being, to choke everything he had said up his throat. And it had been so easy to fall into despair (and to fall out of his eternal optimism) when Aziraphale had looked at him imploringly and, instead of returning Crowley’s bared heart with his own, had begged him to come with him, to Heaven, where — he had insisted — they could be happy. 

(I need you, Aziraphale had said. 

Crowley needed him, too. But in the moment, it had hurt too badly, and he could barely muster up enough wherewithal to tell him that he understood, a lot better than Aziraphale did, just what returning to Heaven would entail. He could barely muster that up, and then he had so desperately, so angrily, so heartbrokenly strode forward, and seized the angel by his lapels, and . . .

I need you.)

“He cares very, very deeply for you, Crowley,” Jesus murmured, sounding far wiser than the age He looked; though, Crowley supposed half-hysterically, He was known, out of the hundreds of names for Him, as the Wisdom of God, Herself. Even in matters such as this. “I will not speak for him in that regard, but I do know that.”

Crowley heaved a shuddering sigh, squeezing his burning eyes shut behind his sunglasses. Grief surged painfully in his chest. He set his wineglass down and folded his hands together over his heart in a prayerful motion, choking back another noise of despair that was trying to threaten its way past his lips.

“We could’ve avoided all this,” he rasped out, words scraping up from his hoarse throat. “I asked him to come with me. To go somewhere we could just be us.” 

“He wanted to give you a better chance, Crowley,” Jesus replied, impossibly gentle for Someone so worn. “He wanted to save the whole world, and to give you both the opportunity to build your own.”

Crowley looked up at Him, desperation — so familiar by now — seizing at his chest.

“You’re the Son of God,” he said, before spitting out a question he already knew the answer to. “Why can’t You just — fix all of this?”

Jesus gave him the sad look that Crowley had known He would give, because it was the same one He had given him two thousand years ago in the deserts of Judea, when Crowley had said to Him, You’re the Son of God. Why should You have to suffer? 

“Because I cannot wish this world into righteousness”, He had said, then; “but I can give people a clearer path to it.”

“You know why,” He said, now.

“Yeah,” Crowley mumbled, hunching over and putting his head in his hands. “Yeah, I do.”

Silence fell between them for a long moment, before Crowley pulled himself together. It was something he had been doing for centuries, for millennia — since Before the Beginning, even — and he had learned to do it well. Especially where Aziraphale was concerned. He didn’t have time to lose it, if Aziraphale was counting on him.

(He thought, vaguely, of a burning bookshop, and a few miserable, lonely, damned hours without his eternal, infernal optimism; he thought of the faint apparition of his best friend, telling him to get a wiggle on; he thought of clutching the poker-hot steering wheel of his Bentley and driving it through a burning ring of demonic flame, getting all the way to Tadfield before the car succumbed, all because Crowley had been holding it together, all because Aziraphale had been counting on him.

Both then, and now, he had lost the being that was worth saving the world for.

Both then, and now, he had a chance to get him back.)

“So what should I do?” He asked, because it was worth a shot, and advice from the Son of God was worth a great deal of something, at the very least. Of course, He wasn’t going to make it that easy; of course, Her Son wasn’t going to be entirely candid when it came to answering questions.

“You know him best,” Jesus said. “Find him. Help him.” He rubbed His hands together, trailing His fingers over the scars in them, looking absentminded but entirely assured. “Save him, perhaps.”

Crowley closed his eyes again, and blew out a long, heavy breath.

Find him. Help him.

He drew a breath back in, and his heart ached.

Save him. 

He looked back up, and his eyes were wet as he asked, “Was he ever angry with me?” 

(He needed to know. 

The answer would change nothing, really; but he needed to know if he had broken things so irrevocably in those last few moments together, with confessions spilling from his lips and onto Aziraphale’s, only not in the way they should’ve. He needed to know if, when Aziraphale had told him he needed him, it had been out of desperation, or out of . . . 

He needed to know.)

“No,” Jesus said simply, looking like He had expected the question; as if He had been waiting for it. As if He had known that it was what Crowley feared the most, after those last few moments in the bookshop. As if He had been ready to show him mercy now, in answering the question so frankly. “He was angry with himself, for a time — a long time. I would wager that he is again, now. Or that perhaps he never stopped.”

“He should never have been.” Crowley blinked furiously from behind his sunglasses, spitting out his words, even as a stab of aching relief pierced through the despair he had felt all this time, thinking he had lost Aziraphale for good for more reasons than one. “He was just trying to do the right thing. He always does.”

(Are you gonna help him, then? Or are you just gonna lie here and feel sorry for yourself, like you have been ever since he’s been gone, while he’s been working to save everything?)

Crowley was an optimist. 

It was a hard thing to have been, for the past year and seven months.

But he figured that now was as good a time as any to stop feeling sorry for himself. 

To stop pretending like he hadn’t been waiting for Aziraphale, and to start believing that he could find him again. 

Crowley opened his eyes. He stood, and stretched, and felt his black-feathered wings stirring hopefully within him.

“You can’t come with me, I’m sure?” He asked briskly, miracling himself to look less like he had just spent the last several days (really, the last year and a half and then some) drinking and wallowing in self-pity — clearing away the unshaven shadow on his face, the disheveled frizz of his hair, the darkened wine stains on his tight black trousers.

Jesus shook His head. He looked gratified, but wholly unsurprised. “Unfortunately not.”

Crowley nodded. “I’ll make do on my own, then.”

“You always do,” Jesus said, with a broad (if a little sad) smile. “But you’re stronger, with him.”

Crowley nodded again.

“I know,” he said — and he did, even if he had spent so long now trying to convince himself that he was just fine on his own. Trying to convince himself that even if he had lost Aziraphale forever, even if Aziraphale was gone, he was fine. 

Trying to convince himself that every evening spent in the bookshop had not, in some quiet corner of his heart, been spent waiting for the bell above the door to ring.

But it had rung. And now, Crowley had his chance to get his everything back.

Jesus left soon after, to go back to Heaven. Crowley wondered what things were really like Up there; surely, they had to be in even more disarray than Jesus had said, what with the Metatron — the very Voice of God, given that She never deigned it appropriate to talk to Her angels, Herself, which, all things considered, had really led to this whole mess in the first place, God’s frustrating omnipotence — gone. But he didn't bother to think about it, much; it wasn't what was important right now.

(He did think, briefly, that if he were still an angel, he would be looking to Jesus for guidance — though from the way He had made things sound, it didn’t seem like anyone listened to Him for much of anything. Funny thing, that; that Jesus, the foundation of their theology, was being completely and utterly ignored for the sake of what they wanted. Their personal agenda. 

Funny thing, that.)

But Crowley didn’t waste much more time. He had done enough of that, moping about the bookshop for the past year and seven months. 

And yes — he was still grieving, he was still hurting, from everything that had happened before Aziraphale had gone; everything that had gone both said and unsaid. But all of that could be dealt with later, especially now that he knew that he had not lost the angel forever — so long as he found him now.

Find him. Help him. 

Save him? 

He dearly hoped that Aziraphale didn’t need to be saved.

But whatever he did need — 

Crowley would give.

Chapter Text

It didn’t take Crowley long to find his way to Aziraphale.

He hadn’t expected that it would, really. He had been able to find him time and time again on Earth, after all; had been able to, over that time, come to feel his presence when he drew nearer, as though his body’s internal compass had a red needle pointing not North, but towards the angel.

He supposed he was like one of those birds that humans had used to deliver the post, before mail by horse had become more popular (Satan knew why; horses were dastardly creatures. Birds were more reliable and much cleverer, always had been). Pigeons, that was it — pigeons could find their way back home from thousands of miles away. 

And, Crowley supposed — he was doing just that.

He was also flying, just as a bird would. Crowley did not mind flying; of course, he would very much have preferred to drive his Bentley across the Atlantic, or something else flashy of the sort, as was his style. But, as per Jesus, Aziraphale was quite on the down-low at the moment, so he figured he should probably follow that example. It wasn’t exactly discreet, should a human catch sight of him — forget pigeons, he looked more like an oversized, misshapen crow — but he flew high enough to be hidden by the dark night sky both above and below him, and that was good enough.

As he flew, he thought a great deal. 

What he did not think about was the past year and seven months. He did not think about the sorrow, and the despair, and the aching miss, and the waiting. He specifically did not think of those things, because what he needed to prioritize right now was not his grief with the angel, but rather the opposite.

Find him. Help him. Save him. 

A mantra that, frankly, he had not needed Jesus to give him, because he had been telling it to himself for millennia, each and every time the angel had encountered the smallest bit of trouble that Crowley had found himself nearby for (so, almost always).

What he did think about was the six thousand and four years that he had spent with the angel. The time that he had gotten to know just how much Aziraphale cared about everything and everyone — because yes, he could be hedonistic and short-sighted at times, but when it came down to it, he really did care. He cared, and he valued life — all life. It was how Crowley had gotten a chance to become smitten with him, rather than being smited by him right there in Eden.

And yet . . . Aziraphale had destroyed the Metatron.

It hardly bore thinking about, to imagine how he was faring with it. 

Jesus had said Aziraphale had seemed hysterical. Crowley would not be surprised if that description was entirely accurate, because, despite how endless it had felt, one year and seven months was not really that long at all. And it was certainly not long enough for Aziraphale to suddenly disregard his reverence for life and instead smile and wave as he chucked off his halo and blew the Metatron to smithereens. 

Crowley knew Aziraphale, and he knew him well — and he knew that, when he did find the angel, he would be in a very sorry state indeed over what he had done. What he had done when he had been backed into a corner, and when, for the first time in over six thousand years, Crowley had not been there to help him out of it.

Guilt twisted in Crowley’s stomach at that. He knew it was irrational; Aziraphale had chosen to leave, had chosen to go to a place where Crowley could not get to him. He had gone to Heaven — he had looked Crowley in the eye and he had —

Crowley cut that thought off with a particularly harsh beat of his black-feathered wings.

Regardless of how rational or irrational it may be, Crowley felt guilty anyway. Guilty for not protecting Aziraphale from — well, all of it. From Heaven, from the Metatron, from God Herself — all of it. 

He hoped he could amend that, now — and he tried to focus on that thought (with limited success, but at least he tried) rather than . . . well, everything else.

Crowley had started to really feel Aziraphale again when he was flying over Kingston. The feeling had gotten stronger in Cranleigh (then weaker, in his brief veering towards Albury), then so strong that Crowley felt his heart ache, as he circled downward near East Lavington to the South Downs.

Find him. 

He had done that; he was swooping down on a small, congenial, tucked-away cottage in the countryside, and Aziraphale was so close he ached. 

Help him. 

Crowley landed on the porch of the cottage; the boards creaked underneath his snakeskin boots, and he pulled in his wings, rolling out his shoulders and tipping his head back to look up at the door. He reached out a hand and pressed his palm against the gentle wood, smooth and welcoming against his skin. 

A shiver passed down his spine; this, he thought, was the sort of place Aziraphale would say was teeming with love. Why, he couldn’t say; and why Aziraphale had come here, he did not know. He hoped that he would find out, because he was absolutely sure that he would find the angel inside. 

Through the windows, he could see warm light streaming into the darkness outside, and, distantly, a feeling of not love, but rather, home, stilled over his caged heart. That feeling, he knew, was Aziraphale. For all the time he had orbited the angel in their time on Earth, that was what had drawn him back to him: the feeling of home.

Like a pigeon. Homing instincts, and all that.

He wasn’t breathing, as he stood motionless on the half-lit porch; hadn’t breathed, since he had taken flight. But he took in a deep inhale now, closing his eyes for a moment. They were still shielded behind his sunglasses.

He breathed, and he lowered his hand, reaching to open the door, and, as it swung open —

— his gaze fell on Aziraphale. 

(Save him.)

Crowley had, for most of his flight, thought over what he knew of everything that had happened with Aziraphale. He had thought about all of Jesus’s words; how He had sat across from Crowley for hours, patiently and painstakingly repeating Himself again and again when Crowley just couldn’t comprehend it. It being the thing he had thought over most of all, as he had flown to here: the fact that Aziraphale had destroyed the Metatron. Aziraphale had done that, and, thus, Crowley had thought a great deal about how, when he did find Aziraphale, it would likely be in a very sorry state, indeed. 

He had had a good deal of time, to think about all of that.

But it did not make it any easier to see it now.

Aziraphale was lying on the floor in front of the door — mercifully on top of a woolen, patterned rug that blanketed the foyer of the cottage. He was curled in on himself as though in sleep, and yet he was trembling, quaking, as though awake and in some sort of pain. There were tear tracks glimmering down his cheek and the bridge of his nose, and he was clad in pious white that made him look out-of-place in contrast to the warm, welcoming cottage within.

He looked — he looked — 

He looked like Crowley had, this past year and seven months.

He looked like he had given up entirely.

“. . . Aziraphale?”

Crowley’s voice came out a low, hoarse rasp. His hands were shaking; he clenched them into tight fists at his sides as he stood over the angel. 

Aziraphale did not move; he only lay there, trembling and defeated. For the second time that night, Crowley choked back sick bile rising in his throat, horror and grief twisting in his chest like a flaming serpent.

He knelt, and slowly, painstakingly reached out to touch the angel’s cheek, tracing the warmth of his soft skin with the skimming tips of his fingers.

“Angel,” Crowley said, voice breaking on the word — and Aziraphale opened his eyes.

There was a hollowness to them; a blank, deadened stare of haunted regret. He looked utterly drained, exhausted and spent. Crowley was reminded, unbidden, of thousands of years ago: sitting beside the angel and staring out across the Dead Sea, as Aziraphale grieved having done something wrong. 

“Oh,” Aziraphale breathed out, a look of recognition finally entering his expression at the small, heartbroken noise Crowley had let out when he had seen the preyed-upon look in the angel’s gaze. He uncurled slightly, sitting up on shaky knees. “Crowley.” 

Since Aziraphale had left, Crowley had imagined reuniting with him thousands of times. He had lurked around the bookshop, morose and grieving, and had lost himself in the bottoms of hundreds of bottles, as he had desperately utilized that horrible, so decidedly un-demonic part of him that was his imagination, picturing every way things could go and then some. Even after he’d told himself Aziraphale wasn’t coming back (even after he had to remind himself of that over and over and over again just to keep himself sane, just to keep himself from sitting at the front of the bookshop and staring at the door, waiting for the bell to ring), he had still imagined, because even when he wasn’t, he was still an optimist. 

He had imagined being angry with him; hissing and snarling and lashing out about their side, about the double-sided coin that was Heaven and Hell, about how can someone as clever as you be so stupid. He had imagined being avoidant; turning on his heel and stalking away before Aziraphale could say a single word.

He had imagined doing those things — but he knew he never would have done. And so mostly, he had imagined being joyful, because he would have crawled through pits of boiling sulfur just to be with his angel again. He had cursed Heaven and every being in it, for being the one place he could not follow Aziraphale to, and for being the one place the angel had gone — and he had imagined joy, in being back at his side. Because despite whatever circumstances there may be, he would be back with Aziraphale, and that was what mattered, and so there would be joy. 

But here, and now — he just felt despair.

It was just as he had feared. Going back to Heaven had changed Aziraphale in a way Crowley didn’t know if he would be able to come back from. Because he had been pushed and pushed to the point of destruction, and that, in turn, would destroy him.

Crowley wouldn’t let it, though. 

He would not let it. 

“C’mon, angel.” Crowley forced the hoarseness from his voice, his words low with urging. “Get up.”

He dropped his touch from Aziraphale’s cheek and reached to take the angel’s hand, but as his fingers brushed the his palm, Aziraphale let out a strangled gasp, yanking both hands away and blinking woundedly up at Crowley; he was hunched in on himself, head lowered, and despite kneeling to his level, the demon was still looking down at him.

Crowley’s eyes widened behind his sunglasses. He shifted forward on his knees and slowly, carefully, slid his fingers underneath the backs of Aziraphale’s hands, lifting them up, cupping them in his own as though in an open-palmed prayer. 

The sick feeling that had become so familiar as of late settled back in the demon’s stomach at the sight of the angel’s hands. There were awful, scabbing burns there, seared across his skin in a furious bubbling of red, blisters forming the shape of an arc from the tips of Aziraphale’s fingers to the edges of his palms.

“You idiot!” Crowley hissed, with more stricken dismay than real venom as he lifted his gaze from the wounds to stare at Aziraphale. “Why didn’t you heal yourself?”

The angel gave him a hollow, frightened look.

“They’ll come, if I do miracles,” he croaked out. His voice was hoarse, quiet and scared; nothing like it should be, almost grating on Crowley’s ears. “They’ll find me — us.” A despairing expression passed over his pale face. “You. Crowley —,”

“‘S hardly even a miracle to fix,” Crowley interrupted, shaking his head. Aziraphale just stared at him bleakly, and the demon sighed.

He would have been bewildered if he didn’t know Aziraphale so well; if he had not seen the angel worry without ceasing over Heaven’s stern corrections of him, to the point that he would drive himself into a helpless state for fear of being reprimanded for doing anything at all. Even when both of them knew that Heaven didn’t really start caring until an angel got to be too frivolous and voluminous with their miracles.

This was neither of those things. Crowley knew that; Aziraphale knew that. 

And yet Aziraphale was frightened, and he was in pain because he was frightened, and Crowley would not stand for either of those things.

He ignored Aziraphale’s feeble protests (why he was protesting Crowley using miracles, the demon had no idea, though he supposed there were those backchannels between Upstairs and Downstairs) as he slowly trailed his fingers down the angel’s burnt palms, touch gentle and painstakingly tender. Aziraphale’s skin was immediately unblemished and healed, as though he had never been hurt at all.

But he had been. And he was, still, as Crowley looked back up and saw, now that Aziraphale’s head was not bowed low, that there were more burns in a fiery ring circling his hairline. 

Crowley understood then, with a sudden uncomfortable lurch, just where these burns had come from.

(He remembered saying — remembered laughing — what felt like a lifetime ago: You blew up your halo?) 

He quickly lifted his hands to the crown of Aziraphale’s head and miracled away the burns there, as well, and then, as an afterthought, he changed the angel’s Heavenly white, eyesore robes into Aziraphale’s usual attire — still wholeheartedly ignoring the angel’s protests at him using miracles at all, because they both knew full well what it would take for Heaven to take any notice, and because, even if they were to do so and begin raining down Heavenly retribution, Crowley couldn’t find it in himself to care when Aziraphale looked so pained and unlike himself. He’d rather be discorporated by an Archangel, he thought, than see him hurt like that ever again.

He gave Aziraphale a brief once-over (he seemed physically fine, now; mentally was another story, his gaze still vacant, only now with an edge of terror that had come with Crowley healing him), and then, rather than pull the angel up as he had meant to do, he shuffled off his knees to sit beside him on the floor, crossing his legs and giving Aziraphale a long look.

(There were a lot of things he forced himself, still, not to think about.)

“Well,” he said, speaking around the emotion lodged tightly and painfully in his chest. “This ‘s all gone down like a lead balloon, eh?”

Aziraphale blinked at him, expression crumpling — and then, he began to cry.

Crowley was not a big crier, himself. He preferred to expel his emotions by doing things like screaming at his plants until his throat was hoarse and raw. But he had seen Aziraphale cry many times, over the six millennia they had orbited one another on Earth. Not that the angel was a constant, weeping mess — but six millennia was a long time, and they had seen so many things that were certainly worth tears. Neither of them had grown disillusioned to human suffering yet, and they likely never would.

Aziraphale had cried over Mesopotamia, and Sodom and Gommorah, and Job’s children, and the death of Christ, and other things done at the behest of the Almighty. He had cried over the wars, and the slave trades, and the genocides, and other things done at the hands of humanity — including, once more, the death of Christ. 

He had cried with grief, and with the inability to do anything, aside from small pockets of good in all of the seemingly-eternal bad. He had cried over the potential each and every human had to do good, when so many of them chose to do such bad. 

All of that to say; Crowley had bore witness to Aziraphale’s tears many times.

But this felt different — because Aziraphale still looked so fucking defeated, in a way he never had before, when Crowley had seen him cry. Because Aziraphale had never lost faith in the goodness of God, nor in the goodness of humanity; he had always believed that through all of the bad, there was good. 

Now . . . well. It seemed as if he had lost faith in himself to believe in that at all.

Whatever it was, it was never pleasant to witness no matter the circumstances, and Crowley felt the same squirmy, discomfited feeling as he always had, watching the tears begin to fall. He shifted uncomfortably, drumming his fingers nervously against the side of his shoe and sucking in a breath through his teeth. 

“Aw, Aziraphale, don’t —,”

“Oh, Crowley, I’m so sorry!” Aziraphale burst out, voice choked and heavy-laden with despair. He lurched forward on his knees and grabbed Crowley’s hands in his own newly-healed ones, squeezing tightly, making Crowley feel as though he had been speared through.

“I was such a fool!” The angel wept, tears running down his cheeks, which had been so pale and frightened only moments ago but that were now flushed and reddened. “I was such a fool, and now — I’ve only made things worse! I thought I could — I had to try, to try and make things better, to fix things, but I — I — oh, Crowley, I killed the Metatron!”

He let go of Crowley’s hands (yanked his own back, rather) and buried his face in his palms. In front of him, Crowley felt very nearly to be at a complete and utter loss — but he forced himself, as always, to pull himself together, for Aziraphale’s sake.

“That’s not what I heard — that you only made things worse, I mean,” he bargained, feeling rather helpless, and very, very lost. “Angel, listen —,”

“And — and I hurt you,” Aziraphale moaned out, muffled. “I hurt you, and I killed the Metatron, and I stole the Book of Life, and everything is awful, but — but now you’re — you’re here, and I don’t —,”

“Angel,” Crowley repeated, rising back up to his knees, gaze piercing behind his sunglasses as he sought out Aziraphale’s tearful blue eyes. “Angel, look at me. Look at me, Aziraphale.”

Aziraphale looked up — and Crowley, without taking another moment to think about what he was doing, wrapped an arm around the angel’s shoulders and pulled him into an embrace, cupping the back of his head in his palm and leaning forward as he breathed Aziraphale in, burying his nose in the curve of his neck.

Aziraphale froze against him; for a moment, Crowley was reminded, unbidden, of when he had kissed him, and when he had gone so still, only to kiss back for just a moment, before Crowley had let go. Now, though, Aziraphale relaxed fully into him with a strangled sob, and Crowley stayed right where he was.

(And, for a moment, he did feel that joy he had always been imagining.

Because he was with Aziraphale. And despite the circumstances — that was what really mattered.) 

Aziraphale buried his face into Crowley’s shoulder, his breathing shaky, his body wracked with quaking shivers; Crowley held him impossibly closer until they were all but one being, tilting his chin up to murmur in the angel’s ear.

“I’ve got you,” he said, voice very nearly breaking. “I’m — m’ here.”

“You shouldn’t be — you shouldn’t’ve come,” Aziraphale choked out weakly, his words muffled. “If they find you here, here with me and the Book — oh, Crowley, I’m so sorry to’ve dragged you into this absolute mess, I —,”

“You didn’t drag me into anything, angel,” Crowley snapped, words edging on a hiss. “I spent almost two bloody years waiti— wanti— wishing I could’ve —,” 

He cut himself off with a growl and a little jerk of his head, squeezing his palm over the back of Aziraphale’s neck to stop his fingers from trembling and letting out a shuddering breath.

“M’ point is — d’you honestly think I wasn’t gonna come after you, once I knew what had happened?”

Aziraphale sniffled. He was still shaking slightly.

“How — how did you know?” He murmured, a little tremor in his voice. “How did you find me here?”

“How’d I —? I could feel you, f’course,” Crowley rasped out, “like always, angel. You know that.” He paused, and then, after Aziraphale’s tentative nod: “And Jesus came n’ told me things’d gone all wrong for you. Said you might need . . . someone.”

(You’re stronger, with him, Jesus had said — and Crowley hadn’t missed the implied inverse of that.)

“Oh,” Aziraphale said. He sighed, sinking further into Crowley’s hold as though he had been aching for it, after so long in the bleak, sterile, unfeeling atmosphere of Heaven. “Of course He did . . . I should’ve gathered, after . . . well . . .”

He trailed away for a moment, sounding as lost as Crowley still felt. When he spoke again, it was more haunted — and, as he spoke, he went entirely still, save for the shuddering of his breath against Crowley’s shirt collar when he lifted his head slightly as though beseeching to God.

“Have you ever killed anyone?” He whispered, so quiet it could’ve been an exhale. Crowley swallowed tightly.

“Ligur,” he said, “remember?”

“Oh —,” Aziraphale’s hands fluttered against Crowley’s back. He was reminded, painfully and once again, of that ill-fated kiss. “Yes.”

In the night Aziraphale had spent in the demon’s flat, after the Armageddon-That-Wasn’t, he had been disturbed to come upon the puddle that had once been Ligur still lying on the floor in diluted Holy Water. He had insisted on cleaning it up himself, not letting Crowley get anywhere near it.

“That could have been you”, he had said, mournful and shell-shocked.

(It was the only time, save for now, that they had ever hugged; though, then, it had been Aziraphale, turning towards him after saying that, looking pale and frightened, and pulling him into his arms as Crowley had floundered, shocked, before conceding gratefully, and sinking into the angel’s hold.

They had stayed like that for a long time. Like now.)

“It’s just that,” Aziraphale murmured shakily, pulling Crowley from his reminiscence, “I — well — he was threatening you.” 

That could have been you seemed to be ringing damningly between them once again. Aziraphale had once again begun to tremble, and, privately, Crowley found himself wishing that the Metatron was still alive, if only so he could destroy him himself.

“He was threatening you, and I — well — I was so frightened at what he could do, and it could’ve well been an empty threat, it really could have been, but —,” If Aziraphale’s hands had not been tentatively braced against Crowley’s back, they would’ve been wringing together, the demon knew. “I had to be sure. That you — that you would be safe, Crowley.” 

His words were not of the persuasive type; he was not trying to justify what he had done. But he was trying to explain why he had done it. And why he had done it — well —

Not for himself, Crowley remembered realizing numbly, earlier that night. For me. 

Crowley went quiet for a long moment, because he knew that if he spoke, he would say something that was rather along the lines of the things he’d been trying not to think about. 

Because — because it was one thing to hear from Jesus, that Aziraphale had thrown away everything he had been working for on the off-chance, the off-chance that Crowley was in danger — but to hear it from the angel himself —

It had been so easy, those first few months alone, to think that Aziraphale had never cared for him at all. He never had believed it, not really, but it had been an easy conclusion to come to. That Aziraphale had only ever wanted the Crowley who no longer was, and that his real place (his real home) was with the other angels, not with the demon who had Fallen from being one. That Aziraphale didn’t give a blessed damn about him. That had been easy. 

It was much harder to know, and to really believe, that Aziraphale had done everything he had done with Crowley in mind.

“Angel,” he murmured at last, voice just as soft as when he had first laid eyes on Aziraphale after what had felt like so long, and had called out his name so despairingly. “Angel . . . I’m sorry.”

Aziraphale startled, jerking in Crowley’s arms and nearly reeling back from visible shock.

“You — my dear, you have nothing to apologize for —,”

“I don’t care.” Crowley’s voice came out rougher than he had meant, and he puffed out an angry breath. He did have things to apologize for, he thought; but that was rather in the category of things not to think about, and so he didn’t. Not now. “Someone’s gotta say it to you, n’ s’ not gonna be Heaven.”

Aziraphale didn’t say anything, but his trembling had slowed once more, and Crowley thought that to be a win in his books. After a moment’s consideration, he slowly drew himself back so he could look Aziraphale in the eye, though he kept his palm resting at the back of the angel’s neck, thumbing at his tartan collar.

“Angel,” he rasped out, “I know you. Alright? I do. An’ I've spent six thousand years watching you tie yourself in knots over every living thing in all of creation. Even the Antichrist.” Crowley studied Aziraphale’s expression as he spoke; there was so much emotion there, he could hardly stand it, but he owed the angel this, now. He had thought a great deal as he had flown here, and he had considered what it was he could possibly say to help him, and so — here he was. Doing his blessed best. 

“I know you. And if you of all beings ended up doing something like that to that great bloody giant head arsehole, then something had gone really wrong long before you threw that halo, and it wasn’t something wrong with you. It — none of —,” Crowley blinked helplessly, gesturing wildly with his free hand. “None of this has ever been your fault, Aziraphale.”

Aziraphale stared at him, face still so raw; flayed open like a wound.

“I was glad,” he whispered at last, voice breaking. “When I realized what — what I had done. I was — horrified, and —,” He drew in a sharp breath, expression wrought with self-flagellation. “But I was glad.” 

“Being glad someone can't hurt you anymore isn't the same thing as wanting them dead,” Crowley said roughly, letting anger roil in his voice to hide his grief over the self-disgust in Aziraphale’s words.

“Isn't it?” Aziraphale asked miserably, and Crowley bit back a snarl.

“No. Ligur, remember?” He jerked his chin up in a challenge. “You think I was happy, having to kill him? Having to destroy him, and with Holy Water? You think I was happy to have to ask for that insurance in the first place? I wasn’t, angel. If it had been Hastur to walk through the door first, well —,” Aziraphale winced, and Crowley shook his head. 

“Listen, angel. I had to do that. You’ve never held it against me. I was defending myself, and . . .” He hesitated for a moment. “So were you.”

(Even though he hadn’t, really. It had been Crowley who he had been defending.

And the angel had been glad.)

Aziraphale’s gaze darted down to his hands, and he stared hollowly at his palms that had been seared with burns only minutes before.

“You don't understand,” he whispered eventually. Crowley's expression darkened.

“No. I understand perfectly,” he hissed, words near-ragged. “You were alone, angel. You were alone, and you were afraid, and you did — what, the first thing you thought of, prob’ly. Didn’t even stop to think, I bet, did you? Impulse decision, was it?”

Aziraphale, after a long moment, gave him a reluctant nod.

“I know you,” Crowley repeated doggedly. “You were backed into a corner. You wouldn’t’ve done it, otherwise. It shows how backed in you were, really, ‘cause I’ve seen you in tight spots before, n’ your self-preservation skills are questionable at best.” He blew out a long breath, drawing his hand away and standing to his feet in one fluid motion.

“You can wallow in your guilt all you want,” he said, “but s’ not gonna fix anything, s’ just gonna make you look dreadful. An’ you do look dreadful, angel, sorry to tell you.” 

Crowley held out a hand in an offer to help Aziraphale up, tilting his head a little to one side; this, at least, was familiar territory for him, giving little pick-me-up speeches to the angel after he had worried himself into a state over doing something wrong. This was a bit more extreme than all the times he’d had to reason with Aziraphale over their Arrangement, but still. 

Aziraphale blinked owlishly at him. His eyes were teary and haunted, and there were red splotches in his cheeks. He was, predictably, worrying his hands in front of himself. He stared at Crowley's outstretched hand as though he couldn't quite believe it was being offered, as the demon raised a brow and gestured a little with his fingers.

“Really, angel — dreadful. S’ there food here anywhere, or something?” 

Crowley glanced around, sincerely taking in the cottage for the first time. It was, he thought, very Aziraphale, but also very empty; there were many, many bare bookshelves, and an armchair and sofa that looked like they ought to have throws over the backs of them sitting in front of a brick fireplace. The walls (the parts not hidden by empty bookcases or covered in broad-paned, darkened windows, at least) were covered with a wallpaper better suited for the 1880s. The foyer spilled out into a small, homey kitchen, and off to the right of it was a spiraling staircase. The entire downstairs was awash with warm light not coming from anywhere in particular; it just . . . was.

(Crowley thought, once again, that it looked like a place Aziraphale would describe as being full of love.

And it was certainly a place he could see even himself calling home.)

“Oh — perhaps, yes.” Aziraphale’s voice was vague, faraway; he was watching Crowley with something like dazed disbelief in his shining blue eyes. “There should be tea in a cupboard somewhere, at least . . .”

“I could always just miracle something —,” Crowley started, but the angel’s look, still so horrified despite nothing having happened after Crowley had healed him, cut him off. No need to push it, after all; and so he conceded, “We’ll have a look in the kitchen, then, eh?”

With a tremulous nod, Aziraphale took Crowley’s hand. In the other, he picked up a book from where it had been discarded on the floor behind him, tucking it protectively under his arm. Crowley recognized it as he had Jesus — not just him but Him, not just a book but The Book — but his reaction was much more nonchalant this time around, not because he didn’t care, but because he had something (someone, rather) to be more concerned about. Also because he was, unfortunately, sober.

Crowley let go of Aziraphale’s hand once he had helped him to his feet (he was a little unsteady; Crowley didn’t much want to think about the fact that he had first felt Aziraphale back on Earth the night before this one, and if Aziraphale had come here from Heaven, he must’ve been lying there, in pain and afraid and wracked with all sorts of misplaced anger and guilt, for nearly a full day, alone), but stayed close enough to be a shoulder to lean on, if need be, as they made their way from the foyer into the kitchen. 

Aziraphale made as if to look through the cabinets himself, but Crowley just gave him his best glare from behind his sunglasses, and the angel, slightly quailed, sat down at the table small enough for two, as the demon started rummaging about instead. The momentary silence between them was uncomfortable and brought up a lot of those things that Crowley did not want to think about, thank you very much, and so he broke it without much pressure.

“You own this place, then?” He asked, opening and closing empty drawers.

“Well, I wouldn’t just break into a human’s home!” Aziraphale sounded nearly scandalized, and Crowley almost grinned at hearing an emotion other than something sorrowful from him, for the first time that night. Of course, it faded into distant melancholy, only moments later. “But — yes. I found this place . . . years ago. It was something of a . . . well . . . I don’t quite know. I only just . . . after . . .”

A heartbroken look passed over his face. Crowley recognized it, because it was the same sort of look he’d been wearing for almost two years now. 

In thinking of that, he suddenly remembered one day he had spent drinking (which was all of them, really, but to digress) and had, on a grieving whim, dug through the contents of Aziraphale’s desk, and found a manila folder with photos of a small, warm-looking cottage clipped to a deed for it — this cottage. He remembered having squinted at it, confused that Aziraphale had never mentioned owning a house aside from the flat above the bookshop. The deed had been signed, he had noted morosely, rather soon after they had helped to stop the end of the world. 

It was about then that he had gotten to thinking about how being here, alone, felt worse than the end of the world, which had devolved into a lot more drinking, and into the manila folder being forgotten in the back of Aziraphale’s desk drawer.

“I fear I . . . don’t quite know why I decided to purchase it,” Aziraphale said at last, voice small as he folded his hands in front of himself and stared down at the round, aged wooden table. Crowley, momentarily lost in thought, looked sidelong at him in time to see the angel’s heartbroken look give way for something more pensive and considering. “I just . . . did.”

“Think I found the deed for it, awhile ago,” Crowley replied evasively. “In your desk.”

“Oh, yes,” Aziraphale said, and his voice quavered a little as he asked, “You — you’ve been staying in the bookshop, then? Muriel mentioned . . .”

“‘Course,” Crowley said quietly, speaking around the lump in his throat. He had found a kettle and a box of Earl Gray, and he kept his body angled towards Aziraphale as he set the kettle on the burner, staring out at the foyer over Aziraphale’s shoulder, gaze fixated on the door he had walked through not a half hour earlier.

“You were gone,” he said eventually. “I wasn’t gonna lose that place as well.”

Out of the corner of his shadowed gaze, he saw Aziraphale blink at him, looking deeply pained as he wrung his healed hands together tightly in front of himself.

“Crowley . . .”

Crowley bit back a snarl, and strictly did not look at him, glaring at the door as if it had done him a personal offense. He didn’t think he would be able to handle it, if Aziraphale started apologizing again — or if he brought up all those things Crowley was trying so damn hard not to think about —

(I need you.)

“Pleassse,” he said jerkily, hissing through his teeth. “Please, don’t, angel.”

Silence fell between them after that until the kettle started to whine, and Crowley poured them both a cup (he had found an aged tea set along with the kettle) with hands that tremored slightly. He was back out of his element; he had done his part, had given the speech he’d somewhat patched together as he had flown here, and now he was back to being at a loss.

He handed Aziraphale his tea — still without fully looking at him — and sat down across from the angel at that small table for two, in the corner of the cozy kitchen.

If Crowley had looked up and out the window above the table — which had a beautiful flower of stained glass in the central pane — he would be able to see, under the light of the moonlight, the garden outside, which had flourished in the absence of Aziraphale’s upkeep, wildflowers spilling out over the lawn and creeping up the sides of the cottage in a rainbow of petals. But he fixed his gaze on his tea instead, thumbing at the edge of the cup with an index finger as he spoke again.

“Jesus told me everything He knew — or that He could, anyway,” he said, back to his brisk tone of voice — more for his own benefit, as when Aziraphale had taken a deep drink from his tea, he had let out an extremely unholy sound of relief that Crowley had reddened (only slightly) at. “Bit of a frustrating conversation, really, but, beggars can’t be choosers I s’pose. He said the two of you’ve been trying to sway Heaven for awhile, and it hadn’t worked all that well. And then, like you said, the Metatron threatened me, and . . .” 

Crowley angled his head towards the Book, which Aziraphale was clutching to his chest with one hand. 

“You took that.”

“Yes,” Aziraphale murmured, placing down his cup of tea with a hand that trembled, gaze fixed on the wooden table. He had gone a little pale, despite his drink. “I did, rather.”

He placed the Book down in front of them both, regarding it tiredly. There was tension around his temples, as though the sight of it pained him.

“I can’t open it anymore,” he said. “The Metatron — he had it hidden, or perhaps God did, for anyone not of a certain stature. I was able to take it, and to open it before, but I suppose when I blew up my halo, I revoked my title as Supreme Archangel.”

“Ah,” Crowley said. He hesitated, and then asked, as casually as he could, “Can I try?”

Aziraphale waved a hand in a go ahead gesture, looking slightly hopeful. Crowley, already regretting what he was doing, slowly reached out and brushed his fingers along the spine of the thick golden tome; when lightning didn’t come down and smite him from above, he pulled it closer and tried to open it. 

Tried, being the key word; it stayed sealed tightly shut.

“I don’t know who else can,” Aziraphale said helplessly, rubbing at his temples and slumping a little in obvious disappointment. He glanced at Crowley, sidelong and nervous. “If you can’t . . . well. Perhaps only Jesus, then, I would imagine. But I’m not certain.”

“Right,” Crowley said sharply, putting the Book back down with more force than necessary. He picked up his cup of tea and drank deeply; it scalded his throat a little, and he hissed, reminded unbidden of fire and brimstone and falling quite a long way; reminded unbidden of the things Aziraphale had had to say about that.

(He said I could appoint you . . . to be an angel. Like the old times.

That had hurt the most. Out of everything Aziraphale had said, that had hurt the most. 

Had he truly wished, in all the six thousand and four years they had spent together on Earth, that Crowley was still that angel? Had he truly been so unhappy with who Crowley was now? Had he truly only wanted back who he was then? 

We can be together! Angels, doing good.)

“Crowley —,”

(I need you!)

“I said don’t,” Crowley snapped, and he stood, beginning to pace the length of the kitchen, dragging a hand agitatedly through his hair. He drew in a deep breath, closing his eyes behind his sunglasses and stopping abruptly to lean against a cabinet, tipping his head back and sighing.

(Find him, he reminded himself. Find him, help him, save him.

He did not, it seemed, need to be saved — but Crowley would be blessed if he didn’t help him.

And so he did what he had always done save for those rough nineteen months, and he pulled himself together.)

“I — sorry,” he grit out, tapping one shoe in a rough tattoo against the floor. “But this — this isn’t the time, Aziraphale, for any of . . . that.” He jerked his head towards the Book between them, opening his eyes but not looking at the angel, going back to glaring at the door since that had worked so well for him before. “We need to deal with this, first.”

“Quite right,” Aziraphale murmured, something like regret aching in his voice, making Crowley flinch across the kitchen. His gaze flicked up; Aziraphale was wringing his hands together in front of him, looking frazzled and desperate. 

“I — in all honesty, Crowley — as you guessed, I was not quite thinking when I took it, nor did I consider anything that came after. I only needed — well, as I told you. And as Jesus did, as well, I’m sure. Heaven — I was changing things, you have to understand. He and I, we were. And — I wasn’t alone, not really, not after I had Him with me. It felt more reachable.” 

He sighed, a sound of throbbing regret and sadness. “But I suppose with the way things were, under the Metatron, and even now, with angels like Sandalphon and Michael in charge . . . things won’t really change. Not without something — something radical.” 

“Right,” Crowley drawled. Despite himself, his lips twitched upwards. “Well, you certainly did that.”

“Quite,” Aziraphale repeated, going slightly pale. “Well.” He tilted his head a little. “We could always . . .”

He trailed away. Crowley stalked forward and sat back down in the chair, sprawling forward and meeting Aziraphale’s eyes from behind his sunglasses.

“We could always?” He prompted.

“Well,” Aziraphale said again, brow furrowed tightly. “Did Jesus happen to tell you . . . why the Metatron wanted me in the first place?” When Crowley shook his head, he leaned forward across the table, one hand clutching the Book, the other reaching out towards Crowley.

“In a way,” he murmured, “it was because of . . . us.”

Chapter Text

After everything that had happened over the course of the past several days, sitting across from Crowley and drinking tea with him in the South Downs cottage felt painstakingly surreal, devastatingly fragile — and yet, gratifyingly right. 

Aziraphale should not feel so grateful, he thought sorrowfully to himself — given that it was, after all, his own fault, that things between them were so fragile in the first place; that things between them felt so surreal, with such pain and confusion over how they had ended up here.

He supposed that where he and Crowley were concerned, things had always been fragile; the pair of them had toed a fine line for a long, long time, being an angel and a demon who were hereditary enemies and yet, somehow, everything but. And even after the averted Armageddon, they had still kept that distance from one another — so yes, rather, things had always been . . . more delicate, between them. 

But this was a different sort of fragility.

(Aziraphale had spent thousands of years sharing drinks with Crowley; lounging about alehouses and saloons and, of course, the bookshop, clinking glasses of red together or steeping their tea in unison. And in those times, things had only really gone awkward and fragile when they had gotten too drunk, and drifted a little too close to one another for comfort — or, really, for too much comfort — only to be righted again once they had blinked and sobered up.

But the way things felt now — well. 

There was no way to sober out of it all.)

Before, it had always been from external circumstances — Heaven and Hell, hereditary enemies, God and Satan, everyone and everything in between the differing sides of the cosmos. But here and now, it was from the things Aziraphale had said. The things Aziraphale had done. Everything that had happened, because of Aziraphale’s choices, to get them to where they were now: sitting across from one another, drinking tea, speaking as though nothing had changed — despite the things they were speaking of proving anything but.

But despite himself . . . Aziraphale was grateful. 

He had fled Heaven with every intention of hiding himself, and the Book of Life, away from everything and everyone for as long as it took for Heaven to stop looking — but he should have guessed that someone else would be looking, too. Someone who would find him (and who had found him) a lot easier.

He should have guessed that it would take Crowley less than a day to find him, and less than an hour to pull him back to his feet; to stir up optimism in the angel’s chest, even amongst all of the doomed defeat that had settled within him.

And he was grateful, to have been found — something that felt just as sinful as being glad that the Metatron was gone.

Aziraphale had thought that he must have wrecked everything with the demon, through his choice to go to Heaven — or rather, through everything that had come after that choice. Crowley’s blighted confession; that painful, agonizing kiss; Aziraphale’s own stumbling, tearful exoneration that had taken the splintered, shivering fragility of them and shattered it into pieces.

When he had been in Heaven, for that past year and seven months, he had fretted over all of that near-constantly, as much as he had tried not to. He had been afraid that, after what had all happened, after all he had done, that Crowley would not even be able to stand to look at him. He had spoken extensively about it with Jesus, who had done His best to assuage Aziraphale’s misplaced guilt and anger — only, now, it felt all too appropriate, for him to be feeling.

Of course, ultimately, all of his worries about himself and Crowley had been overtaken by his overwhelming terror for Crowley’s existence, and then by his all-encompassing guilt over what he had done to the Metatron. But the moment he had laid his gaze on Crowley again, that gnawing fear of what if you’ve lost your everything? had returned. 

The idea that he had lost Crowley permanently because of his choice to try and heal the world, to try and save the world, was one that he did not know if he would be able to bear, even if he had succeeded. And he had not, of course; he had tried, he had tried so hard, but he had left Heaven in more shambles than he had arrived in it. Short their two most important weapons of the Voice of God and Her Book, so perhaps that was something — but, in the end . . . he had not healed the world, he had not saved the world. He had perhaps stalled its demise, but . . . well.

Regardless — he had been wrong, it seemed, about Crowley. About losing him.

That was something.

Oh, Crowley was angry, or at least deep in grief; Aziraphale could see it on his face, whenever he looked at him. He could feel it now, settled between them as they sipped their tea, all surreal and fragile. Everything so delicate, and not in the ways it had been before. The things that had both been spoken and unspoken, all laid out between them even as they opted to look at each other, rather than at that whole mess.

(He had seen it, when he had tried — once, then twice — to bring up those spoken and unspoken things, and when Crowley had jerked away with a snarl each time.)

But Crowley had still cared enough to come for him — and again, really, he should have guessed it. He should have guessed it, because he knew Crowley, just as Crowley said he knew him. And if he knew anything about Crowley, it was that rescuing Aziraphale made him ever so happy. 

He should have guessed it — but he had not, because of his fear, and his guilt, and his shame. 

And so it had been quite a shock to his system, when he had been yanked from where he had been laid out on the floor of the cottage in deep consternation by the gentle touch of familiar fingers against his face; by the barest whisper of a rasping voice saying his name.

It had been quite a shock to his system — to look up, and to see a face he had yearned for for so long. A face flooded with grief and pain and sorrow that was bare and unhidden in the moment, despite the snakelike eyes hidden behind dark sunglasses.

“Oh”, Aziraphale had whispered — and he had been in such pain, such turmoil, but even still, he had felt a little shiver of joy. “Crowley.” 

Amongst his worries over whether or not he had ruined things between him and the demon, Aziraphale had allowed himself to hope that he had not, and that he and Crowley would have something of a joyful reunion — once he had succeeded in his plans. His plans of goodness for humanity; of stopping the Second Coming and reforming Heaven into a true place of light, just as he had told the demon it was. It hadn’t been — Aziraphale had come to see that — but, with Jesus helping him, he had been so sure he could make it so. 

He had been so sure that he could do what he had set out to do, when he had accepted the Metatron’s offer; when he had asked Crowley to come with him. He had thought that perhaps that would be the fix-all to everything; that Crowley would see, would understand, just why Aziraphale had done what he had done. 

Just why he had looked him in the eye and forgiven him — had watched him walk away, rather than run after him and kiss him back.

(God, he had wanted to.

But he was an angel, and he had had a job to do.)

But things had gone so wrong. So wrong.

And now there Crowley was, and Aziraphale had not fixed anything at all, and he was still so certain that everything between them, everything that had been and had not yet been, was permanently, irrevocably broken.

And yet Crowley — despite all of that, and despite the demon’s clear grief, and pain, and sorrow; the anger he surely had stirring deep in his chest, hidden behind his sunglasses — had dropped down beside him, to where Aziraphale had been lying on the floor since he had collapsed there the night before. 

He had knelt in front of him, and he had spoken to him so gently, and then he had — he had —

He had pulled him into his arms, and hugged him.

(Not broken, but — fragile.)

They didn’t do that. They didn’t hug. It wasn’t something they had ever done — save for once, in the waning adrenaline of what had nearly been the end of the world. 

Oh, they had touched each other all of the time, certainly; had even gone so far as to hold hands, to be comfortable enough to let their shoulders touch whenever they strolled side-by-side. They had sat close together in the privacy of Aziraphale’s bookshop, clinking glasses of wine together and holding each others’ gazes for a moment too long before looking away.

But a hug — 

It wasn’t something they did.

And yet, Crowley had held him anyway.

Aziraphale had been completely out of it, lost in a haze of guilt and grief and self-flagellation and pain, both physical and mental, wracking through him like a Godly storm. But it had all seemed to clear, for a moment, as he had sunk into Crowley’s arms and thanked Someone that there was no anger, no anger at all, in the demon’s voice as he had murmured, I’ve got you. I’m here. 

You shouldn’t’ve come, Aziraphale had cried out, and the fear had surged within him once more, the fear that had hollowed him from the inside out ever since the Metatron had leveled him with his steely, unforgiving gaze and all but promised Crowley’s imminent destruction — and then Crowley had been angry, but it was just as he had been angry when Aziraphale had opened his palms in his and shown him the burns there. 

Crowley was angry, but it was not at Aziraphale — even if, Aziraphale thought bitterly, it perhaps should be.

And the demon had taken the angel’s hands in his own, and, against Aziraphale’s protests of him using any miracles at all (he had been so afraid, because he had come here in the first place in an effort to keep Crowley out of danger, he had done everything he had done for the sake of that, and yet here Crowley was anyway), had healed him from the burns that had been seared into him by his ill-fitting halo. 

Crowley had taken away his pain, and Aziraphale had breathed a little easier, even when held so very tightly in his arms.

How did you find me here?, he had asked, and Crowley had stiffened against him.

I could feel you, he had said. Like always.

And — of course. That was another thing he should’ve guessed.

They had been able to feel each other for ever so long, after all. 

Aziraphale had become accustomed to ignoring it, to shelving it away; it was just another in the many ways he was straying from his duties as an angel of the Lord, by growing so close to a demon that he felt his presence when he was near. 

It was something ineffable; something unexplainable. Miraculous forces orbiting one another were surely bound to create a . . . a bond over time, after all. It made sense, that they would grow to feel each others’ presence. 

Only, it felt — it felt like something more than that.

It made sense, that they would grow to feel each others’ presence — but trying to reason with why it felt like something more was an impossibility. For two hereditary enemies, at least.

But Aziraphale had started . . . acknowledging it more, in the four years after everything had changed. He had allowed himself to think about it freely; and, furthermore, had allowed himself to enjoy spending time in Crowley’s company without feeling guilt over it. He had allowed himself to do, to feel, to think so many things, in relation to Crowley, that might’ve sent him into a worrisome stupor, before.

He had —

He had bought the cottage in the South Downs.

He had purchased the property not a day after the Armageddon-That-Wasn’t. It was something he had done on an absolute whim — another one of those impulse decisions that he feared he had become rather privy to, if the Metatron was any indication (Crowley had hit the nail on the head, when he had brought that up earlier). He had never regretted it — not really. Not like his complex, near-unfathomable emotions over the Metatron’s destruction. 

Regret, no.

But he had rather wished he’d done a few other things, first.

And then he had never quite gotten around to those ‘other things.’

He had excuses upon excuses for why not. There had been the adjustment to no longer reporting to Heaven after their ‘playing with fyre’, and then there had been the lockdown that Crowley had all but slept through, and then there had been the return to their status quo that it seemed neither of them wanted to break: orbiting one another, only orbiting, never colliding. In perfect tandem, lest their fragile circumstances shatter.

He had his excuses.

But it really all came back to the fact that he had been frightened.

An optimist, he may be — for everything but his own endeavors.

And so he had not gotten around to those ‘other things’, but he had bought the cottage in the South Downs, and he felt very dearly about it. 

It had a garden out back, leading to a small pond surrounded by wildflowers, where deer came to graze and birds nested in the springtime. The little house had many windows, and sunlight streamed into it, casting the comfortable, homey interior into a warm glow. The front porch had two rocking chairs, looking out over an expanse of green, rolling hills and other similar cottages in the distance, though none quite like this one. This one had been blessed by an angel for years, and it thrummed with as much aching love as one place could hold.

It had nearly knocked him off his feet, when he had first landed the night before — that ferocious love, not as strong after nearly two years of abandonment but still roiling beneath the dusty, empty bookshelves and rodent-bitten baseboards. 

That love had not come roaring back at full force when he had miraculously restored the cottage to its pristine state in that miracle that had frightened him so terribly to have done, but it certainly had begun to, the moment a pair of snakeskin boots had landed on its porch; the moment pale, slender fingers had pushed the door open, and black-clad knees had thumped against the wooden floor underneath the patterned carpet.

The moment a demon had pulled an angel into his arms and whispered, I’m here. 

And it wasn’t just the hug — it was everything else Crowley had said. About him. About the Metatron.

(Aziraphale had told him he hadn’t understood. 

But he hadn’t even really believed that, himself — because in saying that, he had been whisked right back to the bookshop; when he had said that same thing, and Crowley had said that he did understand. That he understood, a lot better than Aziraphale, just what Heaven was, just what the Metatron wanted.

And if Crowley had been right about that, then — then, well —)

None of this has ever been your fault, Aziraphale, Crowley had said. But how could he? How could he say that — when he had looked so pained at every reminder of what Aziraphale had said and done to him? How could he say that, when he was putting himself in danger by just being near the angel? 

How could he say that, even think it, now, as he sat across the kitchen table of the cottage and listened as Aziraphale explained why the Metatron had really wanted him, and how he had been such a fool as to follow him Up?

How could he — when things were so fragile that they were damn-near broken all over again?

(But they weren’t, yet.

And Aziraphale had to believe that there was still a chance. 

For the world, yes — but for them, too.)

And, yes — Aziraphale knew, with some part of him, that it was not entirely his fault, if anything. He knew from his conversations with Jesus in Heaven over all of this; over his and Crowley’s Arrangement, and their orbit around one another. Over everything that had happened in the bookshop, before he had gone. 

He understood the shades of gray, and he understood that he had been right in his intent, doing what he had done. But in execution, and now in conclusion, it was all so wrong, and he couldn’t find anyone else to blame but himself for . . . well, everything. Despite what Crowley may think — and despite how right he may be.

Perhaps this was not entirely his fault.

But even that was a hard-pressed belief, right now.

Despite his inner turmoil, Aziraphale’s voice had gained strength, as he had explained to Crowley the one thing it seemed Jesus hadn’t told him — how they had come to understand the real reason the Metatron had come, because of his and Crowley’s shared miracle over Gabriel. He hadn’t even faltered, when parroting the Metatron’s words.

(Despite your disappointing disobedience and sinfulness, Aziraphale, you are still an angel of a certain . . . caliber. 

Therefore . . . I believe extreme sanctions are in order.)

It had been an impulse decision — blowing up his halo.

But at the same time . . . Aziraphale had known, then, somewhere deep down, what had needed to be done. Empty threat or not.

None of this has ever been your fault, Aziraphale, Crowley had said, and Aziraphale didn’t understand it, didn’t understand it at all — even if he so desperately wanted to believe it. Even if he so desperately wanted Crowley to be right — as right as he had been, back in the bookshop.

Before things had gone so fucking pear-shaped.

“. . . He didn’t know we did it together, though, did he?” Crowley was saying, and Aziraphale forced himself to concentrate as he rubbed at his temples with a wince. 

There was a headache twanging at the back of his skull; despite Crowley having miracled the burns away (he had been so gentle), Aziraphale could still feel the aftereffects of being made to wear the ill-fitting halo for so long. He wondered if that would be permanent. 

He supposed that that would be the least of his penance. 

“No, certainly not,” the angel said, half-distractedly. He cupped his teacup in his palms, letting the warmth soothe him; Crowley had just poured them both more, and Aziraphale was too tired to protest when the demon waved a hand surreptitiously over his own — most likely to make it alcoholic, if Aziraphale knew Crowley. Which, of course, he did.

“He said — well, as I said,” Aziraphale started, “he spoke of my caliber, but disregarded you entirely. And if he knew, if he even considered, that we could do such a miracle together, I fear —,” 

He squeezed his cup tighter; the strength in his voice wavered.

He thought, for just a moment, what it might have been like, had the Metatron erased Crowley — but only just for a moment, because any longer and he thought he would burst into another round of sobbing tears, at the mere idea of never having known of the demon’s existence. 

“I fear that if he knew, and if he was not bluffing, about the Book,” Aziraphale said eventually, voice soft, “he would have used it on you then. Or even far before then.”

Crowley leaned his chair back dangerously, tipping his head to one side with a weary sigh. His arms were crossed tightly over his chest; his face was pale.

“D’you think he ever used it?” He asked jerkily, a line of tension jumping in his sharp jaw. From the look of his expression, Aziraphale thought he, too, may have briefly thought of the ramifications of that very idea; of what it may have been like, had he, or Aziraphale, been removed from Creation altogether.

“Well, we wouldn’t know, would we?” Aziraphale murmured, closing his eyes and shaking his head, allowing despair to roll over him as he, unbidden, considered the very thought of it once more. “We would have no idea.”

“Hm. I s’pose not,” Crowley grunted. Aziraphale looked back at him; the demon’s expression had gone impassive, his gaze hidden behind his dark sunglasses, as he let his chair fall back forward with a thunk. 

“No use thinking about it, then?”

“No,” Aziraphale sighed despondent, forehead wrinkling as he rested his chin in one palm. His head ached, and he ran his other hand exhaustedly through his curls.

“If, truly, no one else can open it, then that solves the problem in and of itself,” he mused. “If that is true, then the Book itself is no use thinking about. But if we hide it, together, there will be no question; it will be gone. There will be no chance of it being used.”

“We’ll need to do it quickly,” Crowley growled, resting his elbows on the table and drumming his fingers lightly against the side of the hot kettle as he moved his chair back and forth again. “I have a feeling our old sides won’t like it very much when we do. And we know they’ll certainly be able to feel that. S’ not like healing a couple burns, or —,”

Aziraphale arched a brow. “Or miracling whiskey into your tea?” He quipped, and Crowley’s lips twitched upwards.

“I’ve had a long day,” he grunted. There was a note of what Aziraphale could only call fondness in his voice, and his stomach lurched at the thought. “m’ sure you feel the same, angel. Just wasn’t sure if you’d approve.”

Aziraphale huffed. For a moment, things felt normal, until his gaze fell back onto the sealed-shut golden tome lying between them, and the small smile that matched Crowley’s slipped from his face.

“Shall we do it now, do you think?” He asked softly. Crowley regarded him from behind his dark sunglasses.

“Prob’ly,” he sighed. “Even f’ you still look awful.”

“You know, you don’t look too great yourself,” Aziraphale bit back, rubbing at his temples with one hand. 

And that was the truth. Crowley was pale and looked worn despite the immaculacy of his clothes and hair; his appearance was, all things considered, far too put-together to be genuine. His expression kept spasming, as though he were fighting emotion from pulling at his face, making him look near-wholly unreadable.

Aziraphale wished futilely something that he’d wished since before the near-end of the world, before Crowley had deigned himself comfortable enough to do so — that he would just take the damn glasses off, and let Aziraphale see his eyes. He was ever so easy to read, when Aziraphale could see his eyes.

But he had forfeited that right, hadn’t he? When things had broken. Shattered, so wholly. 

(I forgive you.

Don’t bother.)

He supposed he should be grateful that things were only fragile, now.

“Anyhow, it doesn’t matter,” Aziraphale continued, pushing away the thought. “They could descend upon us at any moment, anyway —,” He threw the demon a slightly reproachful look — “given your insistence on using miracles.”

“Ah, yes, my insistence on healing you and making you more comfortable,” Crowley drawled, raising a sharp brow, “and myself more comfortable, mind.” He nodded towards the teacup in front of him, giving Aziraphale a lazy grin at the angel’s affront — a grin that was quick to fall, after a moment, as Crowley fixed him with what Aziraphale could only assume was an intense look from behind his sunglasses.

“If this doesn’t work,” he said, voice suddenly hard-pressed, “or if it does, n’ they come here and smite us both . . .”

“If they do,” Aziraphale said, with a tired little smile, “I promise to do the I was wrong dance in the eternal nothingness we’ll surely find ourselves in.”

Crowley’s lips twitched. He looked away, tension jumping in his jaw.

“Least we’ll be together, still, eh?”

His voice was quiet and pensive, with a note of something like longing. Aziraphale swallowed tightly, his eyes burning more harshly than his palms had been.

“Quite.”

Crowley took in a harsh breath and downed the rest of his drink (which was possibly all whiskey, Aziraphale thought wryly) before outstretching one pale, slender hand atop the Book of Life. Aziraphale did the same, and their fingers, not waiting for permission, tentatively intertwined. 

Crowley gave him a little nod, and Aziraphale returned it, still wishing he could see his eyes.

And, together, they shifted reality — an exact eighth of an inch to the left, to be precise about it. 

In Heaven, pristine white lights flashed red, and four bickering Archangels shot to attention.

In Hell, a shrieking wail sounded throughout the grime-spattered, shadowed halls, and two demons looked at one another and grinned.

And somewhere on Earth, the Son of God stopped in His tracks, where He had been taking a moment of solitude to think — and resolved that if there was any time for Him to act, it was now.